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Seneca  s  florals 


A3 


BY  WAY  OF  ABSTRACT. 


TO  WniCH  IS  ADDED, 


A  DISCOURSE, 


UNDER  THE  TITLE  OF 


AN  AFTER«THOUGIIT« 


BY  SIR  ROGER  L'ESTRANGE,  Kkt. 


FIFTH  AMERICAN  EDITION^ 


JfEW-YORK: 

PUBLISHED   BY   EVERT   DUYCKINCK, 

NO.    68   WATES-STREEX. 

J.  Si  J.  Harper,  printejs. 


1817. 


^e  nee  as   ^iorals 

By  way  of  abstract:  to 
which  is  added  a  Dis- 
course under  the  title  of 
an  After-thought  by  Sir 
Koger   \J  Estrange ^    Knt. 


Qentennial  Edition 


Harper  &  Brothers,  Publishers 

New  York  and  London 

mdccccxvii 


^ 


OF  THIS,  THE  CENTENNIAL  EDITION 
SEVEN  HUNDRED  AND  FIFTY  COPIES 
HAVE  BEEN  PRINTED  FROM  TYPE 
WHICH  HAS  BEEN  DISTRIBUTED 
THIS    COPY   IS   NUMBER 


NOTE 


o 


N 


B 


ECAUSE  it  was  the  first  book  published  by  them, 
the  house  of  Harper  ^  Brothers,  in  this  their  Cen- 
tennial year,  has  ventured  to  re-publish  "  Seneca's 
Morals.'*  The  work  has  taken  this  form,  calling 
upon  present-day  resources  for  the  making  of  a  fine 
book  as  did  J.  i^  J.  Harper  upon  the  equipment 
which  was  available  in  1817. 

The  present  book,  in  typography,  follows  the  old 
book  page  for  page  as  will  be  seen  by  a  comparison 
of  the  facsimile  pages  with  the  corresponding  type 
pages.  In  some  cases  the  old  page  has  been  fol- 
lowed even  to  the  point  of  including  typographical 
errors,  although  there  were  very  few  in  the  original. 

Franklin  Square, 
August  15,  1917 


TO  THE  READER, 


XT  ha3  been  a  loqg  time  "my  thought  "to  turn  Seneca  iiiiO 
English;  but  whether  as  a  translation  or  an  abstract,  was  the 
iiuestion.  A  translaiion  I  perceive  it  must  not  be,  at  last,  for 
several  reasons.  First,  H  is  a  thing  already  done  to  my  hand* 
and  of  above  sixty  years^  standing ;  though  with  as  little,  credit 
perhaps,  to  the  Author,  as  satisj'action  to  the  Reader.  Se^ 
condly,  there  is  a  great  deal  in  him,  that  is  wholly  foreign  to  my 
business:  as  his  Philosophical  treatises  oi  Meteors,  EarVK^iuikes^ 
the  Original  of  Rivers,  several  frivolous  disputes  betwixt  the 
Epicurians  and  the  Stoics,  he.  to  say  nothing  of  his  frequent 
repetitions  of  the  same  thing  again  in  other  words,  (wherein  he 
very  handsomely  excuses  himself,  by  saying, "  That  be  does  but 
inculcate  over  and  over  the  same  counsels  to  those  that  over 
and  over  commit  the  same  faults.")  Thirdly,  His  excellency 
consists  rather  in  a  rlmpsody  of  divine  and  extraordinary /anfs 
and  notions,  than?  in  any  regulated  method  of  dfecourse  j  so 
that  to  take  him  asbe  lies,and  so  to  go  through  with  him,  were 
utterly  inconsistent  with  the  order  and  brevity  which  I  pro- 
pound ;  my  principal  design  being  only  to  digest,  and  com- 
mon-place his  Morals,  in  such  sort,  that  any  man,  upon  occa- 
sion, may  know  where  te  find  them.  And  I  haye  kept  myself 
so  close  to  this  proposition,  that  I  havfe  reduced  all  his  scattered 
Ethics  to  their  proper  heads,  without  any  additions  of  my  own, 
more  than  of  absolute  necessity  for  the  tacking  of  them  toge- 
ther. Some  other  man  in  my  place  would  perhaps  mal;e  yc  ^ 
twenty  apolog;ies  for  his  want  of  skill  an<i  address,  in  govern- 
ing this  affair ;  but  these  are  formal  and  pedantic  fooleries^, 
as  if  any  man  that  first  takes  himself  for  a  coxcomb  in  his  own 
heart,  would  afterwards  make  himself  one  in  print  too.  .This 
:  Mslract,  such  as  it  is,  you  are  extremely  welcome  to  ;  dnd  I 
am  sony  it  is  no  better,,both  for  your  sakes  and  my  ovvn :  for 
If  if  Were  written  up  to  the  spirit  of  the  original,  it  would  be 
one  of  the  most  valuable  presents  that  ever  any  private  mtn 
bestowed  upon  the  public  ;  and  this  too,  even  in  the  judg- 
ment of  both  parties,  as  well  Christian  as  Heathen :  of  which 
in  its  due  place. 

Next  to  my  choice  of  the  Jluthor  ani.  of  ithe  subject,  togetjier 
with  the  manner  of  handling  it,  I  have  likewise  had  some  re- 
gard in  this  p»iblication,  to  the  timitlgoi  it,  and  to  thcpiffcr- 
■ence  of  thi."-  topic  of  Benefits  above  all  others,  for  the  groimd 


TO  THE  READER 

XT  has  been  a  long  time  my  thought  to  turn  Seneca  into 
English;  but  whether  as  a  translation  or  an  abstract,  was  the 
question.  A  translation  I  perceive  it  must  not  be,  at  last,  for 
several  reasons.  First,  it  is  a  thing  already  done  to  my  hand, 
and  of  above  sixty  years'  standing;  though  with  as  little  credit 
perhaps,  to  the  Author,  as  satisfaction  to  the  Reader.  Se- 
condly, there  is  a  great  deal  in  him,  that  is  wholly  foreign  to  my 
business:  as  his  Philosophical  treatises  o{  Meteors,  Earthquakes, 
the  Original  of  Rivers,  several  frivolous  disputes  betwixt  the 
Epicurians  and  the  Stoics,  &c.  to  say  nothing  of  his  frequent 
repetitions  of  the  same  thing  again  in  other  words,  (wherein  he 
very  handsomely  excuses  himself,  by  saying,  "That  he  does  but 
inculcate  over  and  over  the  same  counsels  to  those  that  over 
and  over  commit  the  same  faults.")  Thirdly,  His  excellency 
consists  rather  in  a  rhapsody  of  divine  and  extraordinary  hints 
and  notions,  than  in  any  regulated  method  of  discourse;  so 
that  to  take  him  as  he  lies,  and  so  to  go  through  with  him,  were 
utterly  inconsistent  with  the  order  and  brevity  which  I  pro- 
pound; my  principal  design  being  only  to  digest,  and  com- 
mon-place his  Morals,  in  such  sort,  that  any  man,  upon  occa- 
sion, may  know  where  to  find  them.  And  I  have  kept  myself 
so  close  to  this  proposition,  that  I  have  reduced  all  his  scattered 
Ethics  to  their  proper  heads,  without  any  additions  of  my  own, 
more  than  of  absolute  necessity  for  the  tacking  of  them  toge- 
ther. Some  other  man  in  my  place  would  perhaps  make  you 
twenty  apologies  for  his  want  of  skill  and  address,  in  govern- 
ing this  affair;  but  these  are  formal  and  pedantic  fooleries, 
as  if  any  man  that  first  takes  himself  for  a  coxcomb  in  his  own 
heart,  would  afterwards  make  himself  one  in  print  too.  This 
Abstract,  such  as  it  is,  you  are  extremely  welcome  to;  and  I 
am  sorry  it  is  no  better,  both  for  your  sakes  and  my  own:  for 
if  it  were  written  up  to  the  spirit  of  the  original,  it  would  be 
one  of  the  most  valuable  presents  that  ever  any  private  man 
bestowed  upon  the  public;  and  this  too,  even  in  the  judg- 
ment of  both  parties,  as  well  Christian  as  Heathen:  of  which 
in  its  due  place. 

Next  to  my  choice  of  the  Author  and  of  the  subject,  together 
with  the  manner  of  handling  it,  I  have  likewise  had  some  re- 
gard in  this  publication,  to  the  timing  of  it,  and  to  the  prefer- 
ence of  this  topic  of  Benefits  above  all  others,  for  the  ground 


viii  TO  THE  READER 

work  of  my  first  essay.  We  are  fallen  Into  an  age  of  vain 
philosophy  (as  the  holy  apostle  calls  it)  and  so  desperately 
overrun  with  Drolls  and  Sceptics,  that  there  is  hardly  any 
thing  so  certain  or  so  sacred,  that  is  not  exposed  to  question 
and  contempt,  insomuch,  that  betwixt  the  hypocrite  and  the 
Atheist,  the  very  foundations  of  religion  and  good  manners  are 
shaken,  and  the  two  tables  of  the  Decalogue  dashed  to  pieces 
the  one  against  the  other;  the  laws  of  government  are  sub- 
jected to  the  fancies  of  the  vulgar;  public  authority  to  the 
private  passions  and  opinions  of  the  people;  and  the  super- 
natural motions  of  grace  confounded  with  the  common  dic- 
tates of  nature.  In  this  state  of  corruption  who  so  fit  as  a 
good  honest  Christian  Pagan  for  a  moderator  among  Pagan 
Christians  ? 

To  pass  now  from  the  general  scope  of  the  whole  work  to 
the  particular  argument  of  the  first  part  of  it,  I  pitched  upon 
the  theme  of  Benefits,  Gratitude,  and  Ingratitude,  to  begin 
withal,  as  an  earnest  of  the  rest,  and  a  lecture  expressly  calcu- 
lated for  the  unthankfulness  of  these  times;  the  foulest  un- 
doubtedly, and  the  most  execrable  of  all  others,  since  the  very 
apostacy  of  the  angels:  nay,  if  I  durst  but  suppose  a  possibility 
of  mercy  for  those  damned  spirits,  and  that  they  might  ever  be 
taken  into  favour  again,  my  charity  would  hope  even  better 
for  them  than  we  have  found  from  some  of  our  revolters, 
and  that  they  would  so  behave  themselves  as  not  to  incur  a 
second  forfeiture.  And  to  carry  the  resemblance  yet  one  point 
farther,  they  do  both  of  them  agree  in  an  implacable  malice 
against  those  of  their  fellows  that  keep  their  stations.  But, 
alas!  what  could  Ingratitude  do  without  Hypocrisy,  the  in- 
separable companion  of  it,  and,  in  effect,  the  bolder  and 
blacker  devil  of  the  two?  for  Lucifer  himself  never  had  the 
face  to  lift  up  his  eyes  to  heaven,  and  talk  to  the  Almighty 
at  the  familiar  rate  of  our  pretended  patriots  and  zealots,  and 
at  the  same  time  to  make  him  party  to  a  cheat.  It  is  not  for 
nothing  that  the  Holy  Ghost  has  denounced  so  many  woes, 
and  redoubled  so  many  cautions  against  hypocrites;  plainly 
intimating  at  once  how  dangerous  a  snare  they  are  to  mankind, 
and  no  less  odious  to  God  himself;  which  is  sufficiently  de- 
noted in  the  force  of  that  dreadful  expression,  And  your  por- 
tion shall  he  with  hypocrites.  You  will  find  in  the  holy  scrip- 
tures (as  I  have  formerly  observed)  that  God  has  given  the  grace 
of  repentance  to  persecutors,  idolaters,  murderers,  adulterers, 
&c.  but  I  am  mistaken  if  the  whole  bible  affords  you  any  one 
instance  of  a  converted  hypocrite. 


TO  THE  READER  ix 

To  descend  now  from  truth  itself  to  our  own  experience; 
have  we  not  seen,  even  in  our  days,  a  most  pious  (and  almost 
faultless)  Prince  brought  to  the  scaffold  by  his  own  subjects? 
the  most  glorious  constitution  upon  the  face  of  the  earth,  both 
ecclesiastical  and  civil,  torn  to  pieces  and  dissolved?  the  hap- 
piest people  under  the  sun  enslaved?  our  temples  sacrilegious- 
ly profaned,  and  a  licence  given  to  all  sorts  of  heresy  and 
outrage?  and  by  whom  but  by  a  race  of  hypocrites?  who 
had  nothing  in  their  mouths  all  this  while  but  the  purity  of  the 
gospel,  the  honour  of  the  king,  and  the  liberty  of  the  people,  as- 
sisted under  hand  with  defamatory  papers,  which  were  levelled 
at  the  king  himself  through  the  sides  of  his  most  faithful  minis' 
ters.  This  project  succeeded  so  well  against  one  govern- 
ment, that  it  is  now  again  set  a-foot  against  another;  and  by 
some  of  the  very  actors  too  in  that  tragedy,  and  after  a  most 
gracious  pardon  also,  when  Providence  had  laid  their  necks 
and  their  fortunes  at  his  majesty's  feet.  It  is  a  wonderful 
thing  that  libels  and  libellers,  the  most  infamous  of  practices 
and  of  men;  the  most  unmanly  sneaking  methods  and  instru- 
ments of  mischief;  the  very  bane  of  human  society,  and  the 
plague  of  all  governments;  it  is  a  wonderful  thing  (I  say)  that 
these  engines  and  engineers  should  ever  find  credit  enough  in 
the  world  to  engage  a  party;  but  it  would  be  still  more  won- 
derful if  the  same  trick  should  pass  twice  upon  the  same  people ^ 
in  the  same  age,  and  from  the  very  same  impostors.  This  con- 
templation has  carried  me  a  little  out  of  my  way,  but  it  has  at 
length  brought  me  to  my  text  again;  for  there  is  in  the  bottom 
of  it  the  highest  opposition  imaginable  of  ingratitude  and  obli- 
gation. 

The  reader  will,  in  some  measure,  be  able  to  judge  by  this 
taste  what  he  is  farther  to  expect;  that  is  to  say,  as  to  the  cast 
of  my  design,  and  the  simplicity  of  the  style  and  dress;  for 
that  will  still  be  the  same,  only  accompanied  with  variety  of 
matter.  Whether  it  pleases  the  world  or  no,  the  care  is  taken; 
and  yet  I  could  wish  that  it  might  be  as  delightful  to  others 
upon  the  perusal  as  it  has  been  to  me  in  the  speculation.  Next 
to  the  gospel  itself,  I  do  look  upon  it  as  the  most  sovereign  re- 
medy against  the  miseries  of  human  nature:  and  I  have  ever 
found  it  so,  in  all  the  injuries  and  distresses  of  an  unfortunate 
life.  You  may  read  more  of  him,  if  you  please,  in  the  Appen- 
dix, which  I  have  here  subjoined  to  this  Preface,  concerning 
the  authority  of  his  writings,  and  the  circumstances  of  his  life; 
as  I  have  extracted  them  out  of  Lipsius. 


t 


OF  SENECA'S  WBTTINGS. 


-T  appears  that  our  author  had  among  the  ancients  three 
rofessed  enemies.  In  the  first  place  Caligula,  who  called 
is  writings,  sand  wilhotd  lime:  alluding  to  the  starts  of  his 
fancy  ;  and  the  incoherence  of  his  aentenees.  But  Seneca 
was  never  the  worse  for  the  censure  of  a  person  that  pro- 
pounded even  the  suppressing  of  Homer  himself;  and  of  cast- 
ing Virgil  and  Livy  out  of  all  public  libraries.  The  next,  was 
Fabius,  who  taxes  him  for  being  too  bold  with  tlie  eloquence 
of  former  times,  and  failing  in  that  point  himself;  and  likewise 
for  being  too  quaint  and  finical  in  his  expressions  :  which 
Tacitus  imputes,  in  paxt  to  the  freedom  of  his  o^vn  particulai- 
inclination,  and  partly  to  the  humour  of  the  times.  He  is  also 
diarged  by  Fabius  as  no  profound  philosopher  ;  but  with  all 
this,  he  allows  him  to  be  a  man  very  studious  and  learned,  of 
great  wit  and  invention,  and  well  read  in  all  sorts  of  litera- 
ture ;  a  severe  reprover  of  vice  ;  most  divinely  sententious ; 
and  well  worth  the  reeuling,  if  it  were  only  for  his  morals ;  ad- 
dmg,  thatif  his  judgment  had  been  answerable  to  his  wit>  it  had 
been  much  the  more  for  bis  reputation  ;  but  he  wrote  what- 
ever came  next ;  so  that  I  would  advise  the  reader  (says  he) 
to  distinguish  where  he  himself  did  not :  For  there  are  many 
things  in  him,  not  only  to  be  approved,  b«t  admired  ;  and  it 
was  great  pity  that  he  that  could  do  what  he  would,  ^ould  not 
always  make  the  best  choice.  His  third  adversary  is  Agellius, 
who  falls  upoti  him  for  liis  style,  and  a  kind  of  tinkling  in  his 
sentences,  but  yet  commends  him  for  his  piety  and  good  coun- 
sels. On  the  bther  side  Columela  calls  him  a  man  of  excel- 
lent  wit  and  learning  ;  Pliny,  the  "prince  of-  erudition  ;  Tacitus 
gives  him  the  character  of  a  wise  many  and  a  jtl,  tutor  for  a 
prince  ;  Dio  reports  him  to  have  been  the  greatest  man  of  his 
■age. 

Of  those  pieces  of  his  that  are  extant,  we  shall  not  need  to 
give  any  particular  account :  and  of  those  that  are  lost,  we 
cannot,  any  farther  than  by  lights  to  them  from  other  authors, 
as  we  find  them  cited  much  to  his  honour ;  and  we  may  rea- 
sonably compute  them  to  be  the  greater  part  of  his  worlts. 


OF  SENECA'S  WRITINGS 

XT  appears  that  our  author  had  among  the  ancients  three 
professed  enemies.  In  the  first  place  CaHgula,  who  called 
his  writings,  sand  without  lime:  alluding  to  the  starts  of  his 
fancy;  and  the  incoherence  of  his  sentences.  But  Seneca 
was  never  the  worse  for  the  censure  of  a  person  that  pro- 
pounded even  the  suppressing  of  Homer  himself;  and  of  cast- 
ing Virgil  and  Livy  out  of  all  public  libraries.  The  next,  was 
Fabius,  who  taxes  him  for  being  too  bold  with  the  eloquence 
of  former  times,  and  failing  in  that  point  himself;  and  likewise 
for  being  too  quaint  and  finical  in  his  expressions:  which 
Tacitus  imputes,  in  part  to  the  freedom  of  his  own  particular 
inclination,  and  partly  to  the  humour  of  the  times.  He  is  also 
charged  by  Fabius  as  no  profound  philosopher;  but  with  all 
this,  he  allows  him  to  be  a  man  very  studious  and  learned,  of 
great  wit  and  invention,  and  well  read  in  all  sorts  of  litera- 
ture; a  severe  reprover  of  vice;  most  divinely  sententious; 
and  well  worth  the  reading,  if  it  were  only  for  his  morals;  ad- 
ding, that  if  his  judgment  had  been  answerable  to  his  wit,  it  had 
been  much  the  more  for  his  reputation;  but  he  wrote  what- 
ever came  next;  so  that  I  would  advise  the  reader  (says  he) 
to  distinguish  where  he  himself  did  not:  For  there  are  many 
things  in  him,  not  only  to  be  approved,  but  admired;  and  it 
was  great  pity  that  he  that  could  do  what  he  would,  should  not 
always  make  the  best  choice.  His  third  adversary  is  Agellius, 
who  falls  upon  him  for  his  style,  and  a  kind  of  tinkling  in  his 
sentences,  but  yet  commends  him  for  his  piety  and  good  coun- 
sels. On  the  other  side  Columela  calls  him  a  man  of  excel- 
lent wit  and  learning;  Pliny,  the  prince  of  erudition;  Tacitus 
gives  him  the  character  of  a  wise  man,  and  a  fit  tutor  for  a 
prince;  Dio  reports  him  to  have  been  the  greatest  man  of  his 
age. 

Of  those  pieces  of  his  that  are  extant,  we  shall  not  need  to 
give  any  particular  account:  and  of  those  that  are  lost,  we 
cannot,  any  farther  than  by  lights  to  them  from  other  authors, 
as  we  find  them  cited  much  to  his  honour;  and  we  may  rea- 
sonably compute  them  to  be  the  greater  part  of  his  works. 


xii  OF  SENECA'S  WRITINGS 

That  he  wrote  several  poems  in  his  banishment,  may  be  ga- 
thered partly  from  himself:  but  more  expressly  out  of  Taci- 
tus, who  says,  "that  he  was  reproached  with  his  applying 
himself  to  poetry,  after  he  saw  that  Nero  took  pleasure  in 
it,  out  of  a  design  to  curry  favour."  St.  Jerome  refers  to  a 
discourse  of  his  concerning  matrimony.  Lactantius  takes  no- 
tice of  his  history,  and  his  books  of  Moralities:  St.  Augustine 
quotes  some  passages  of  his  out  of  a  book  of  Superstition; 
some  references  we  meet  with  to  his  books  of  Exhortations: 
Fabius  makes  mention  of  his  Dialogues:  and  he  himself  speaks 
of  a  treatise  of  his  own  concerning  Earthquakes,  which  he 
wrote  in  his  youth:  but  the  opinion  of  an  epistolary  corres- 
pondence that  he  had  with  St.  Paul,  does  not  seem  to  have 
much  colour  for  it. 

Some  few  fragments,  however,  of  those  books  of  his  that 
are  wanting,  are  yet  preserved  in  the  writings  of  other  emi- 
nent authors,  sufficient  to  show  the  world  how  great  a  trea- 
sure they  have  lost  by  the  excellency  of  that  little  that  is  left. 

Seneca,  says  Lactantius,  that  was  the  sharpest  of  all  the 
Stoics,  how  great  a  veneration  has  he  for  the 
Divin.  Instit.  Almighty!  as  for  instance,  discoursing  of 
lib.  I.  cap.  I  a  violent  death;  "Do  you  not  understand?" 
says  he,  "the  majesty  and  the  authority  of 
your  Judge;  he  is  the  supreme  Governor  of  heaven  and  earth, 
and  the  God  of  all  your  gods;  and  it  is  upon  him  that  all 
those  powers  depend  which  we  worship  for  deities."  More- 
over, in  his  Exhortations,  "This  God,"  says  he,  "when  he 
laid  the  foundations  of  the  universe,  and  entered  upon  the 
greatest  and  the  best  work  in  nature,  in  the  ordering  of  the  go- 
vernment of  the  world,  though  he  was  himself  All  in  all,  yet 
he  substituted  other  subordinate  ministers,  as  the  servants  of 
his  commands."  And  how  many  other  things  does  this 
Heathen  speak  of  God  like  one  of  us? 

Which  the  acute  Seneca,  says  Lactantius  again,  saw  in  his 

Exhortations.     "We,"  says  he,  "have   our  de- 

'^^'  ^  pendence  elsewhere,  and  should  look  up  to  that 

Power,  to  which  we  are  indebted  for  all  that  we  can  pretend 

to  that  is  good." 

And  again,  Seneca  says  very  well  in  his  Morals,  "They 
...  p  worship     the     images     of    the     God,"     says, 

he  "kneel  to  them,  and  adore  them: 
they  are  hardly  ever  from  them,  either  plying  them  with  of- 
ferings or  sacrifices:    And  yet  after  all  this  reverence  to  the 


OF  SENECA'S  WRITINGS  xiii 

image,  they  have  no  regard  at  all  to  the  workman  that  made 
it." 

Lactantius    again.     "An    invective,"    says    Seneca    in    his 
Exhortations,    "is    the    master-piece    of   most 
of  our    phiosophers;     and    if    they    fall    upon    Divin.  Instit. 
the    subject    of    avarice,    lust,    ambition,    they    -^J^-  3-    (^^P-  ^5 
lash  out  into  such  excess  of  bitterness,   as  if 
railing  were  a  mark  of  their  profession.     They  make  me  think 
of  galley  pots  in  an  apothecary's  shop,  that  have  remedies 
without  and  poison  within." 

Lactantius  still.     "He  that  would  know  all  things,  let  him 

read    Seneca;     the    most    lively    describer    of    ..,         ^ 

I  !•  •  1  11  Ltb.  5.     Cap.  9 

public    vices    and    manners,  and  the  smartest 

reprehender  of  them." 

And  again;   as  Seneca  has  it  in  the  books  of  Moral  Philoso- 
phy, "He  is  the  brave  man,  whose  splendour     ,.,   ,    ^ 
*^j  ,.        -11  fi-  Lib.  6.  Cap.  17 

and  authority  is  the    least  part  or  his  great- 
ness, that  can  look  death  in  the  face  without  trouble  or  sur- 
prise;  who,  if  his  body  were  to  be  broken  upon  the  wheel,  or 
melted  lead  to  be  poured  down  his  throat,  would  be  less  con- 
cerned for  the  pain  itself,  than  for  the  dignity  of  bearing  it." 

Let  no  man,  says  Lactantius,  think  himself  the  safer  in  his 
wickedness  for  want  of  a  witness;  for  God  is  r  l  ^  ^ 
omniscient,  and  to  him  nothing  can  be  a  secret. 
It  is  an  admirable  sentence  that  Seneca  concludes  his  Exhor- 
tations withal:  "God,"  says  he,  "is  a  great,  (I  know  not 
what)  an  incomprehensible  Power;  it  is  to  him  that  we  live, 
and  to  him  that  we  must  approve  ourselves.  What  does  it 
avail  us  that  our  consciences  are  hidden  from  men,  when  our 
souls  lie  open  to  God?"  What  could  a  Christian  have  spoken 
more  to  the  purpose  in  this  case  than  this  divine  Pagan.?  And 
in  the  beginning  of  the  same  work,  says  Seneca,  "What  is  it 
that  we  do?  to  what  end  is  it  to  stand  contriving,  and  to  hide 
ourselves?  We  are  under  a  guard,  and  there  is  no  escaping 
from  our  keeper.  One  man  may  be  parted  from  another  by 
travel,  death,  sickness;  but  there  is  no  dividing  us  from  our- 
selves. It  is  to  no  purpose  to  creep  into  a  corner  where  no 
body  shall  see  us.  Ridiculous  madness!  Make  it  the  case, 
that  no  mortal  eye  could  find  us  out,  he  that  has  a  conscience 
gives  evidence  against  himself." 

It  is  truly  and  excellently  spoken  of  Seneca,  says  Lactantius, 

once   again;     "Consider,"    says   he,    "the   ma-     ,.,   ,    ^ 

•    *       fu  J  J    .u  ui  ^»*-  6.    Cap.  15 

jesty,   the   goodness,    and   the   venerable   mer- 
cies  of  the   Almighty;    a   friend    that   is   always   at   hand. 


xiv  OF  SENECA'S  WRITINGS 

What  delight  can  it  be  to  him  the  slaughter  of  innocent  crea- 
tures or  the  worship  of  bloody  sacrifices?  Let  us  purge  our 
minds,  and  lead  virtuous  and  honest  lives.  His  pleasure  lies 
not  in  the  magnificence  of  temples  made  with  stone  but  in  the 
pity  and  devotion  of  consecrated  hearts." 

In  the  book  that  Seneca  wrote  against  Superstitions,  treat- 
ing of  images,  says  St.  Austin,  he  writes  thus: 
I'h  ?^^'v  T'  "They  represent  the  holy,  the  immortal,  and 
the  inviolable  gods  in  the  basest  matter,  and 
without  life  or  motion;  in  the  forms  of  men,  beasts,  fishes, 
some  of  mixed  bodies,  and  those  figures  they  call  deities; 
which,  if  they  were  but  animated,  would  affright  a  man,  and 
pass  for  monsters."  And  then,  a  little  farther,  treating  of 
Natural  Theology,  after  citing  the  opinions  of  philosophers,  he 
supposes  an  objection  against  himself:  "Somebody  will  per- 
haps ask  me,  Would  you  have  me  then  to  believe  the  heavens 
and  the  earth  to  be  gods,  and  some  of  them  above  the  moon, 
and  some  below  it?  Shall  I  ever  be  brought  to  the  opinion 
of  Plato,  or  of  Strato  the  Peripatetic?  the  one  of  which  would 
have  God  to  be  without  a  body,  and  the  other  without  a  mind." 
To  which  he  replies,  "And  do  you  give  more  credit  then  to 
the  dreams  of  T.  Tatius,  Romulus,  and  Hostilius,  who  caused, 
among  other  deities,  even  Fear  and  Paleness  to  be  worship- 
ped? the  vilest  of  human  affections;  the  one  being  the  motion 
of  an  affrighted  mind,  and  the  other  not  so  much  the  disease  as 
the  colour  of  a  disordered  body.  Are  these  the  deities  that  you 
will  rather  put  your  faith  in,  and  place  in  the  heavens?"  And 
speaking  afterward  of  their  abominable  customs,  with  what  li- 
berty does  he  write!  "One,"  says  he,  "out  of  zeal,  makes  him- 
self an  eunuch,  another  lances  his  arms;  if  this  be  the  way  to 
please  their  gods,  what  should  a  man  do  if  he  had  a  mind  to 
anger  them  ?  or,  if  this  be  the  way  to  please  them,  they  do  cer- 
tainly deserve  not  to  be  worshipped  at  all.  What  a  frenzy  is 
this  to  imagine  that  the  gods  can  be  delighted  with  such  cruel- 
ties, as  even  the  worst  of  men  would  make  a  conscience  to  in- 
flict! The  most  barbarous  and  notorious  of  tyrants,  some  of 
them  have  perhaps  done  it  themselves,  or  ordered  the  tearing 
of  men  to  pieces  by  others;  but  they  never  went  so  far  as  to 
command  any  man  to  torment  himself.  We  have  heard  of 
those  that  have  suffered  castration  to  gratify  the  lust  of  their 
imperious  masters,  but  never  any  man  that  was  forced  to  act 
it  upon  himself.  They  murder  themselves  in  their  very  tem- 
ples, and  their  prayers  are  offered  up  in  blood.     Whosoever 


OF   SENECA'S  WRITINGS  xv 

shall  but  observe  what  they  do,  and  what  they  suffer,  will  find 
it  so  misbecoming  an  honest  man,  so  unworthy  of  a  freeman; 
and  so  inconsistent  with  the  action  of  a  man  in  his  wits,  that 
he  must  conclude  them  all  to  be  mad,  if  it  were  not  that  there 
are  so  many  of  them;  for  only  their  number  is  their  justifica- 
tion and  their  protection." 

When  he  comes  to  reflect,  says  St.  Augustine,  upon  those 
passages  which  he  himself  had  seen  in  the  Capitol,  he  cen- 
sures them  with  liberty  and  resolution;  and  no  man  will 
believe  that  such  things  would  be  done  unless  in  mockery  or 
frenzy.  What  lamentation  is  there  in  the  Egyptian  sacrifices 
for  the  loss  of  Osiris  ?  and  then  what  joy  for  the  finding  of  him 
again?  Which  he  makes  himself  sport  with;  for  in  truth  it  is 
all  a  fiction;  and  yet  those  people  that  neither  lost  any  thing 
nor  found  any  thing,  must  express  their  sorrows  and  their  re- 
joicings to  the  highest  degree.  *'But  there  is  only  a  certain 
time,"  says  he,  "for  this  freak,  and  once  in  a  year  people 
may  be  allowed  to  be  mad.  I  came  into  the  Capitol,"  says 
Seneca,  "where  the  several  deities  had  their  several  servants 
and  attendants,  their  lictors,  their  dressers,  and  all  in  posture 
and  action,  as  if  they  were  executing  their  offices;  some  to 
hold  the  glass,  others  to  comb  out  Juno's  and  Minerva's  hair; 
one  to  tell  Jupiter  what  o'clock  it  is;  some  lasses  there  are 
that  sit  gazing  upon  the  image,  and  fancy  Jupiter  has  a  kind- 
ness for  them.  All  these  things,"  says  Seneca,  a  while  after, 
"a  wise  man  will  observe  for  the  law's  sake  more  than  for 
the  gods;  and  all  this  rabble  of  deities,  which  the  superstition 
of  many  ages  has  gathered  together,  we  are  in  such  manner  to 
adore,  as  to  consider  the  worship  to  be  rather  matter  of  custom 
than  of  conscience."  Whereupon  St.  Augustine  observes, 
that  this  illustrious  senator  worshipped  what  he  reproved, 
acted  what  he  disliked,  and  adored  what  he  condemned. 


SENECA'S 
LIFE  AJ^^B  DEATH. 


i.T  has  been  an  ancient  custom  to  record  the  actions  and  the 
writings  of  eminent  men,  with  all  their  circumstances  ;  and 
it  is  but  a  right  that  Ave  owe  to  the  memory  of  our  famous 
author.  Seneca  was  by  birth  a  Spaniai'd  of  Cordova,  (a  Ro- 
man colony  of  great  fame  and  antiquity.)  He  was  of  the  family 
ofAnnajus,  of  the  order  of  knights;  and  the  father,  Lucius 
Annaeus  Seneca  was  distinguished  from  the  son,  by  the  name 
of  iJie  Orator.  His  mother's  name  was  Helvia,  a  woman  of 
excellent  qualities. .  His  father  came  to  Rome  in  tlie  time  of 
Augustus,  and  his  wife  and  children  soon  followed  him,  our 
Seneca  yet  being  in  his  infancy.  There  were threebrothers 
of  them,  and  never  a  sister.  Marcos  Anno&us  Novatus,  Lucius 
Annffias  Seneca,  and  Lucius  Annsens  Mela  t  the  first  of  these 
changed  his  name  for  Junius  Gallio,  who  adopted  him ;  to  him 
it  was  that  he  dedicated  Bis  treatise  of  ANGER;.whom  he  calls 
Novatus  too;  and  he  also  dedicated  his  discourse  of  a  Happy 
Life  to  his  brother  Gallia-  The  youngest  brother  (Arina;us^ 
Mela)  was  Lucan's  father.  Seneca  was  about  twenty  ycj-s  of 
age  id  the  fifth  year  of  Tiberius,  when  the  Jew^s  were  expelM 
Rome.  His  father  trained  him  up  to  rhetoric,  but  his  geniu'- 
led  him  rather  to  philosophy :  and  he  applied  his  wit  to  voral- 
■Uy  and  virtue.  He  was  a  great  hearer  of  the  celebrated  men 
of  those  times ;  as  Attalus,  Sotion,  Papirius,  Fabianus,  (nf 
whom  lie  makes  often  mention)  and  he  was  much  an  admire:- 
also  of  Demetrius  the  Cynic,."whose  conversation  he  had  at- 
forwards  in  the  Court,  and  both  at  home  also  and  abroad,  fof 
they  often  travelled  together.  His  father  was  not  at  all 
pleased  with  his  humour  of  philosophy,  but  forced  liim  I'.pon 
ihe  Zaw,  and  for  a  while  he  practised  ^^/cat/ing.  After  which  he 
would  needs  put  him  upon  public  employment :  and  he  cam*' 
first  to  be  qwestor,  then  prcetor,  and  some  will  have  it  that  he 
was  choseh  consul:  but  this  is  doubtful. 

Seneca  finding  tliat  he  had  ill  offices  done  him  at  court,  and 
that  Nero's  favour  began  to  cool,  he  went  directly  and  reso- 
bilely  to  Nero,  with  an  offer  to  refund  all  that  he  had  gotten? 


SENECA'S 
LIFE  AND  DEATH 


I 


T  has  been  an  ancient  custom  to  record  the  actions  and  the 
writings  of  eminent  men,  with  all  their  circumstances;  and 
it  is  but  a  right  that  we  owe  to  the  memory  of  our  famous 
author.  Seneca  was  by  birth  a  Spaniard  of  Cordova,  (a  Ro- 
man colony  of  great  fame  and  antiquity.)  He  was  of  the  family 
of  Annaeus,  of  the  order  of  knights;  and  the  father,  Lucius 
Annasus  Seneca  was  distinguished  from  the  son,  by  the  name 
of  the  Orator.  His  mother's  name  was  Helvia,  a  woman  of 
excellent  qualities.  His  father  came  to  Rome  in  the  time  of 
Augustus,  and  his  wife  and  children  soon  followed  him,  our 
Seneca  yet  being  in  his  infancy.  There  were  three  brothers 
of  them,  and  never  a  sister.  Marcus  Annaeus  Novatus,  Lucius 
Annaeus  Seneca,  and  Lucius  Annaeus  Mela:  the  first  of  these 
changed  his  name  for  Junius  Gallio,  who  adopted  him;  to  him 
it  was  that  he  dedicated  his  treatise  of  Anger,  whom  he  calls 
Novatus  too;  and  he  also  dedicated  his  discourse  of  a  Happy 
Life  to  his  brother  Gallio.  The  youngest  brother  (Annaeus 
Mela)  was  Lucan's  father.  Seneca  was  about  twenty  years  of 
age  in  the  fifth  year  of  Tiberius,  when  the  Jews  were  expelled 
Rome.  His  father  trained  him  up  to  rhetoric,  but  his  genius 
led  him  rather  to  philosophy:  and  he  applied  his  wit  to  moral- 
ity and  virtue.  He  was  a  great  hearer  of  the  celebrated  men 
of  those  times;  as  Attalus,  Sotion,  Papirius,  Fabianus,  (of 
whom  he  makes  often  mention)  and  he  was  much  an  admirer 
also  of  Demetrius  the  Cynic,  whose  conversation  he  had  af- 
terwards in  the  Court,  and  both  at  home  also  and  abroad,  for 
they  often  travelled  together.  His  father  was  not  at  all 
pleased  with  his  humour  of  philosophy,  but  forced  him  upon 
the  law,  and  for  a  while  he  practised  pleading.  After  which  he 
would  needs  put  him  upon  public  employment:  and  he  came 
first  to  be  qucestor,  then  prcetor,  and  some  will  have  it  that  he 
was  chosen  consul:  but  this  is  doubtful. 

Seneca  finding  that  he  had  ill  offices  done  him  at  court,  and 
that  Nero's  favour  began  to  cool,  he  went  directly  and  reso- 
lutely to  Nero,  with  an  offer  to  refund  all  that  he  had  gotten, 


xviii  SENECA'S  LIFE  AND  DEATH 

which  Nero  would  not  receive;  but  however,  from  that  time 
he  changed  his  course  of  Ufe,  received  few  visits,  shunned  com- 
pany, went  Httle  abroad:  still  pretending  to  be  kept  at  home, 
either  by  indisposition  or  by  his  study.  Being  Nero's  tutor  and 
governor,  all  things  were  well  so  long  as  Nero  followed  his 
counsel.  His  two  chief  favourites  were  Burrhus  and  Seneca, 
who  were  both  of  them  excellent  in  their  ways:  Burrhus,  in 
his  care  of  military  affairs,  and  severity  of  discipline;  Seneca 
for  his  -precepts  and  good  advice  in  the  matter  of  eloquence,  and 
the  gentleness  of  an  honest  mind:  assisting  one  another,  in 
that  slippery  age  of  the  prince  (says  Tacitus)  to  invite  him, 
by  the  allowance  of  lawful  pleasures,  to  the  love  of  virtue. 
Seneca  had  two  wives;  the  name  of  the  first  is  not  mention- 
ed; his  second  was  Paulina,  whom  he  often  speaks  of  with 
great  passion.     By  the  former  he  had  his  son  Marcus. 

In  the  first  year  of  Claudius  he  was  banished  into  Corsica, 
when  Julia,  the  daughter  of  Germanicus,  was  accused  by  Mes- 
salina  of  adultery  and  banished  too,  Seneca  being  charged  as 
one  of  the  adulterers.  After  a  matter  of  eight  years  or  up- 
wards in  exile,  he  was  called  back,  and  as  much  in  favour 
again  as  ever.  His  estate  was  partly  patrimonial,  but  the  great- 
est part  of  it  was  the  bounty  of  his  prince.  His  gardens,  villas, 
lands,  possessions,  and  incredible  sums  of  money,  are  agreed 
upon  at  all  hands;  which  drew  an  envy  upon  him.  Dio  re- 
ports him  to  have  had  250,000/.  Sterling  at  interest  in  Britany 
alone,  which  he  called  in  all  at  a  sum.  The  Court  itself  could 
not  bring  him  to  flattery;  and  for  his  piety,  submission,  and 
virtue,  the  practice  of  his  whole  life  witnesses  for  him.  "So 
D  I     L'b  soon,"  says  he,  "as  the  candle  is  taken  away, 

my  wife,  that  knows  my  custom,  lies  still, 
without  a  word  speaking:  and  then  do  I  recollect  all  that  I 
have  said  or  done  that  day,  and  take  myself  to  shrift.  And 
why  should  I  conceal  or  reserve  any  thing,  or  make  any  scru- 
ple of  inquiring  into  my  errors,  when  I  can  say  to  myself,  Do 
so  no  more,  and  for  this  once  I  will  forgive  thee?"  And  again, 
what  can  be  more  pious  and  self-denying  than  this  passage, 
r  .       ,  in    one    of    his    epistles?     "Believe    me    now, 

when  I  tell  you  the  very  bottom  of  my  soul:  In 
all  the  difficulties  and  crosses  of  my  life  this  is  my  considera- 
tion; since  it  is  God's  will,  I  do  not  only  obey,  but  assent  to 
it;  nor  do  I  comply  out  of  necessity,  but  inclination." 

"Here  follows  now,"  says  Tacitus,  "the  death  of  Seneca, 
to  Nero's  great  satisfaction:    not  so  much  for  any  pregnant 


SENECA'S  LIFE  AND  DEATH  xix 

proof  against  him  that  he  was  of  Piso's  conspiracy;  but  Nero 
was  resolved  to  do  that  by  the  sword  which  he  could  not 
effect  by  poison.  For  it  is  reported,  that  Nero  had  corrupted 
Cleonicus  (a  freeman  of  Seneca's)  to  give  his  master  poison, 
which  did  not  succeed:  whether  that  the  servant  had  discover- 
ed it  to  his  master,  or  that  Seneca,  by  his  own  caution  and 
jealousy,  had  avoided  it;  for  he  lived  only  upon  a  simple 
diet,  as  the  fruits  of  the  earth,  and  his  drink  was  most  com- 
monly river  water. 

"Natalis,  it  seems,  was  sent  upon  a  visit  to  him  (being  indis- 
posed) with  a  complaint  that  he  would  not  let  Piso  come  at 
him;  and  advising  him  to  the  continuance  of  their  friendship 
and  acquaintance  as  formerly.  To  whom  Seneca  made  an- 
swer. That  frequent  meetings  and  conferences  betwixt  them 
could  do  neither  of  them  any  good;  but  that  he  had  a  great 
interest  in  Piso's  welfare.  Hereupon  Granius  Silvanus  (a  cap- 
tain of  the  guard)  was  sent  to  examine  Seneca  upon  the  dis- 
course that  passed  betwixt  him  and  Natalis,  and  to  return  his 
answer.  Seneca,  either  by  chance,  or  upon  purpose,  came 
that  day  from  Campania,  to  a  villa  of  his  own,  within  four 
miles  of  the  city;  and  thither  the  officer  went  the  next  evening, 
and  beset  the  place.  He  found  Seneca  at  supper  with  his  wife 
Paulina,  and  two  of  his  friends;  and  gave  him  immediately 
an  account  of  his  commission.  Seneca  told  him,  that  it  was 
true  that  Natalis  had  been  with  him  in  Piso's  name,  with  a 
complaint  that  Piso  could  not  be  admitted  to  see  him;  and  that 
he  excused  himself  by  reason  of  his  want  of  health,  and  his 
desires  to  be  quiet  and  private;  and  that  he  had  no  reason  to 
prefer  another  man's  welfare  before  his  own.  Caesar  himself, 
he  said,  knew  very  well  that  he  was  not  a  man  of  compliment, 
having  received  more  proofs  of  his  freedom  than  of  his  flat- 
tery. This  answer  of  Seneca's  was  delivered  to  Caesar  in  the 
presence  of  Popaea  and  Tigellinus,  the  inmate  confidents  of 
this  barbarous  prince:  and  Nero  asked  him  whether  he  could 
gather  any  thing  from  Seneca  as  if  he  intended  to  make  him- 
self away.?  The  tribune's  answer  was,  that  he  did  not  find 
him  one  jot  moved  with  the  message:  but  that  he  went  on 
roundly  with  his  tale,  and  never  so  much  as  changed  coun- 
tenance for  the  matter.  Go  back  to  him  then,  says  Nero, 
and  tell  him,  that  he  is  condemned  to  die.  Fabius  Rusticus 
delivers  it,  that  the  tribune  did  not  return  the  same  way  he 
came,  but  went  aside  to  Fenius  (a  captain  of  that  name)  and 
told  him  Caesar's  orders,  asking  his  advice  whether  he  should 


XX  SENECA'S  LIFE  AND  DEATH 

obey  them  or  not;  who  bade  him  by  all  means  to  do  as  he 
was  ordered.  Which  want  of  resolution  was  fatal  to  them 
all;  for  Silvanus  also,  that  was  one  of  the  conspirators,  as- 
sisted now  to  serve  and  to  increase  those  crimes,  which  he 
had  before  complotted  to  revenge.  And  yet  he  did  not  think 
fit  to  appear  himself  in  the  business,  but  sent  a  centurion  to 
Seneca  to  tell  him  his  doom.  Seneca  without  any  surprise 
or  disorder,  calls  for  his  will;  which  being  refused  him  by 
the  officer,  he  turned  to  his  friends,  and  told  them  that  since 
he  was  not  permitted  to  requite  them  as  they  deserved,  he 
was  yet  at  liberty  to  bequeath  them  the  thing  of  all  others 
that  he  esteemed  the  most,  that  is,  the  image  of  his  life; 
which  should  give  them  the  reputation  both  of  constancy  and 
friendship,  if  they  would  but  imitate  it;  exhorting  them  to  a 
firmness  of  mind,  sometimes  by  good  counsel,  otherwhile  by 
reprehension,  as  the  occasion  required.  Where,  says  he,  is 
all  your  philosophy  now.?  all  your  ■premeditated  resolutions 
against  the  violences  of  Fortune?  Is  there  any  man  so  igno- 
rant of  Nero's  cruelty,  as  to  expect,  after  the  murder  of  his 
mother  and  his  brother,  that  he  should  ever  spare  the  life  of 
his  governor  and  tutor?  After  some  general  expressions  to 
this  purpose,  he  took  his  wife  in  his  arms,  and  having  some- 
what fortified  her  against  the  present  calamity,  he  besought 
and  conjured  her  to  moderate  her  sorrows,  and  betake  her- 
self to  the  contemplations  and  comforts  of  a  virtuous  life; 
which  would  be  a  fair  and  an  ample  consolation  to  her  for  the 
loss  of  her  husband.  Paulina,  on  the  other  side,  tells  him  her 
determination  to  bear  him  company,  and  wills  the  executioner 
to  do  his  office.  Well,  says  Seneca,  if  after  the  sweetness  of 
life,  as  I  have  represented  it  to  thee,  thou  hadst  rather  enter- 
tain an  honourable  death,  I  shall  not  envy  thy  example;  con- 
sulting at  the  same  time,  the  fame  of  the  person  he  loved, 
and  his  own  tenderness,  for  fear  of  the  injuries  that  might  at- 
tend her  when  he  was  gone.  Our  resolution,  says  he,  in 
this  generous  act,  may  be  equal,  but  thine  will  be  the  greater 
reputation.  After  this  the  veins  of  both  their  arms  were 
opened  at  the  same  time.  Seneca  did  not  bleed  so  freely,  his 
spirits  being  wasted  with  age  and  a  thin  diet;  so  that  he  was 
forced  to  cut  the  veins  of  his  thighs  and  elsewhere,  to  hasten 
his  despatch.  When  he  was  far  spent,  and  almost  sinking 
under  his  torments,  he  desired  his  wife  to  remove  into  another 
chamber,  lest  the  agonies  of  the  one  might  work  upon  the 
courage  of  the  other.     His  eloquence  continued  to  the  last, 


SENECA'S  LIFE  AND  DEATH  xxi 

as  appears  by  the  excellent  things  he  delivered  at  his  death; 
which  being  taken  in  writing  from  his  own  mouth,  and  pub- 
lished in  his  own  words,  I  shall  not  presume  to  deliver  them 
in  any  other.  Nero,  in  the  mean  time,  who  had  no  particu- 
lar spite  to  Paulina,  gave  orders  to  prevent  her  death,  for 
fear  his  cruelty  should  grow  more  and  more  insupportable 
and  odious.  Whereupon  the  soldiers  gave  all  freedom  and 
encouragement  to  her  servants  to  bind  up  her  wounds,  and 
stop  the  blood,  which  they  did  accordingly;  but  whether  she 
was  sensible  of  it  or  not  is  a  question.  For  among  the 
common  people,  who  are  apt  to  judge  the  worst,  there  were 
some  of  opinion,  that  as  long  as  she  despaired  of  Nero's 
mercy,  she  seemed  to  court  the  glory  of  dying  with  her  hus- 
band for  company;  but  that  upon  the  likelihood  of  better 
quarter  she  was  prevailed  upon  to  outlive  him;  and  so  for 
some  years  she  did  survive  him,  with  all  piety  and  respect  to 
his  memory;  but  so  miserably  pale  and  wan,  that  every  body 
might  read  the  loss  of  her  blood  and  spirits  in  her  very  coun- 
tenance. 

"Seneca  finding  his  death  slow  and  lingering,  desires  Sta- 
tins Annaeus  (his  old  friend  and  physician)  to  give  him  a 
dose  of  poison,  which  he  had  provided  before  hand,  being  the 
same  preparation  which  was  appointed  for  capital  offenders  in 
Athens.  This  was  brought  him,  and  he  drank  it  up,  but  to 
little  purpose;  for  his  body  was  already  chilled,  and  bound 
up  against  the  force  of  it.  He  went  at  last  into  a  hot  bath, 
and  sprinkling  some  of  his  servants  that  were  next  him,  this, 
says  he,  is  an  oblation  to  Jupiter  the  deliverer.  The  fume  of 
the  bath  soon  despatched  him,  and  his  body  was  burnt,  with- 
out any  funeral  solemnity,  as  he  had  directed  in  his  testament: 
though  this  will  of  his  was  made  in  the  height  of  his  prosperity 
and  power.  There  was  a  rumor  that  Subrius  Flavins,  in  a 
private  consultation  with  the  centurions,  had  taken  up  this  fol- 
lowing resolution,  (and  that  Seneca  himself  was  no  stranger  to 
it)  that  is  to  say,  that  after  Nero  should  have  been  slain  by  the 
help  of  Piso,  Piso  himself  should  have  been  killed  too;  and 
the  empire  delivered  up  to  Seneca,  as  one  that  well  deserved 
it,  for  his  integrity  and  virtue." 


CONTENTS. 


OF  BENEFITS. 


Page 
Chapter  I.  Of  benefits  in  general,  16 

II.  Several  sorts  of  benefits,  17 

Ill,  A  son  may  oblige  his  father,^and  a  servant' 

his.  master,  18 

IV.  It  is  the  intention,  not  the  matter,  that 

makes  the  benefit,  22 

— V.  There  must  be  judgment  in  a  benefit,  as 

well  as  matter  and  intention,  and  especially  in 
the  choice  of  the  person,  24 

'  VI.  The  matter  of  obligations,  with  its  circum- 

stances, 26 

VII.  The  manner  of  obliging,  29 

VIII.  The  difference  and  value  of  benefits.  32 

IX.  An  honest  man  cannot  be  outdone   in 

courtesy,  36 

X.  The  question  discussed,  whether  or  not  a 

man  may  give  or  return  a  benefit  to  himself,        38 

— — —  XI.  How  far  one  man  maybe  obliged  for  a 

benefit  done  to  another,  40 

■  XII.  The  benefactor  must  have  no  by-ends,         42 

XIII.  There  are  many  cases  wherein  a  man 

may  be  minded  of  a  benefit,  but  it  is  very  rare- 
ly to  be  challenged,  and  never  to  be  upbraided,    45 

XIV.  How  far  to  oblige  or  requite  a  wicked 

man,  63 

— — —  XV.  A  general  view  of  the  parts  and  duties  of 

the  benefactor,  58 

XVI.  How  the  receiver  ought  be  behave  him- 
self, 61 

XVII.  Of  Gratitude,  66 

XVIIl.  Gratitude  mistaken,  69 

XIX.  Of  ingratitude,  72 

•■  XX.  There  can  be  no  law  against  ingratitude,     75 


CONTENTS 
OF  BENEFITS 

Page 
Chapter  I.  Of  benefits  in  general,  29 

II.    Several  sorts  of  benefits,  30 

III.   A  son  may  oblige  his  father,  and  a  servant 

his  master,  31 

IV.    It  is  the  intention,  not  the  matter,  that 

makes  the  benefit,  ^c 

V.   There  must   be  judgment  in   a   benefit,   as 

well  as  matter  and  intention,  and  especially  in 
the  choice  of  the  person,  37 

VI.   The  matter  of  obligations,  with  its  circum- 
stances, 30 

VII.   The  manner  of  obliging,  42 

VIII.   The  difference  and  value  of  benefits,  45 

IX.   An    honest    man    cannot    be    outdone    in 

courtesy,  4^ 

X.   The  question  discussed,  whether  or  not  a 

man  may  give  or  return  a  benefit  to  himself,  51 

XI.   How  far  one  man  may  be  obliged  for  a 

benefit  done  to  another,  53 

XII.    The  benefactor  must  have  no  by-ends,  55 

■ XIII.   There    are   many   cases   wherein    a   man 

may  be  minded  of  a  benefit,  but  it  is  very  rare- 
ly to  be  challenged,  and  never  to  be  upbraided,     61 

XIV.   How  far  to  oblige  or  requite  a  wicked 

man,  55 

XV.   A  general  view  of  the  parts  and  duties  of 

the  benefactor,  yi 

XVI.   How  the  receiver  ought  to  behave  him- 
self, >JA 

XVII.   Of  Gratitude,  79 

XVIII.   Gratitude  mistaken,  82 

• XIX.   Of  ingratitude,  85 

XX.   There  can  be  no  law  against  ingratitude,  88 


xxlv  CONTENTS 


OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

Page 

Chapter  I.   Of  a  happy  life,  and  wherein  it  consists,  93 

II.   Human  happiness  is  founded  upon  wisdom 

and  virtue;  and  first,  of  wisdom,  95 

III.   There  can  be  no  happiness  without  virtue,     99 

IV.    Philosophy  is  the  guide  of  life,  106 

V.   The  force  of  precepts,  113 

VI.   No  felicity  like  peace  of  conscience,  119 

VII.   A  good  man  can  never  be  miserable,  nor 

a  wicked  man  happy,  123 
VIII.   The  due  contemplation  of  Divine  provi- 
dence is  the  certain  cure  of  all  misfortunes,  126 

IX.   Of  levity  of  mind,  and  other  impediments 

of  a  happy  life,  132 

X.   He  that  sets  up  his  rest  upon  contingences 

shall  never  be  at  quiet,  138 

XI.   A  sensual  life  is  a  miserable  life,  142 

XII.   Avarice  and  ambition  are  insatiable  and 

restless,  148 

XIII.   Hope  and  fear  are  the  bane  of  human  life,  153 

XIV.   It  is  according  to  the  true  or  false  esti- 
mate of  things  that  we  are  happy  or  miserable,  156 
XV.   The  blessings  of  temperance  and  modera- 
tion, 159 
XVI.   Constancy  of  mind  gives  a  man  reputa- 
tion, and   makes  him   happy  in   despite  of  all 
misfortunes,  166 
XVII.  Our  happiness  depends  in  a  great  mea- 
sure upon  the  choice  of  our  company,                      173 

XVIII.   The  blessings  of  friendship,  177 

XIX.   He  that  would  be  happy,  must  take  an  ac- 
count of  his  time,  180 

XX.   Happy  is  the  man  that  may  choose  his 

own  business,  186 
XXI.   The  contempt  of  death  makes  all  the  mi- 
series of  life  easy  to  us,                                                 191 
XXII.   Consolations  against  death,  from  the  pro- 
vidence and  the  necessity  of  it,                                 198 

XXIII.  Against    immoderate    sorrow    for    the 

death  of  friends,  202 


CONTENTS  XXV 

Page 
Chapter  XXIV.   Consolations    against    banishment    and 

bodily  pain,  206 
XXV.    Poverty  to  a  wise  man  is  rather  a  bless- 
ing than  a  misfortune,  210 

OF  ANGER 

I.   Anger  described:   it  is  against  nature:    and 

only  to  be  found  in  man,  215 

II.   The  rise  of  anger,  217 

III.   Anger  may  be  suppressed,  219 

IV.   It  is  a  short  madness  and  deformed  vice,  222 

V.   Anger  is  neither  warrantable  nor  useful,  224 

VI.   Anger    in    general,    with    the    danger    and 

effects  of  it,  231 

VII.   The   ordinary   grounds   and   occasions   of 

anger,  238 

VIII.   Advice    in    the    case  of   contumely    and 

revenge,  242 
IX.   Cautions  against  anger  in  the  matter  of  edu- 
cation, converse,  and    other   general   means  of 
preventing  it;  both  in  ourselves  and  others,           246 

X.   Against  rash  judgment,  251 

XL   Take  nothing  ill  from  another  man,  until 

you  have  made  it  your  own  case,  254 

XII.   Of  cruelty,  256 

Of  Clemency,  263 

EPISTLES 

Epistle    I.   Certain  general  directions  for  the  government 

of  the  voice;    as  in  speaking  soft  or  loud;    quick 

or  slow.     The  speech  is  the  index  of  the  mind,        277 

II.   Of  styles,  compositions,   and   the  choice    of 

words.  That  is  the  best  way  of  writing  and 
speaking  which  is  free  and  natural.  Advice 
concerning  reading,  279 

III.   Against  all  sorts  of  affectation  in  discourse: 

fantastical  studies;  impertinent  and  unprofita- 
ble subtleties.  Man's  business  is  virtue,  not 
words,  282 


XXVI 


CONTENTS 


Page 

Epistle  IV.  Business,  and  want  of  netvs,  are  no  excuse 
among  friends  for  not  writing.  Wise  men  are 
the  better  for  one  another.  How  far  wisdom 
may  be  advanced  by  precept,  286 

V.    Seneca    gives    an    account    of   himself,    his 

studies,  and  of  his  inclinations:  with  many  ex- 
cellent reflections  upon  the  duties  and  the  errors 
oi  human  life,  291 

VI.   The    blessings    of    a    virtuous    retirement. 

How  we  come  to  the  knowledge  of  virtue.  A 
distinction  betwixt  good  and  honest.  A  wise 
man  contents  himself  with  his  lot,  295 

VII.   Of  impertinent   studies,    and    impertinent 

men.     Philosophers  the  best  companions,  300 

VIII.  Against  singularity  of  manners  and  be- 
haviour, 302 

IX.   The  blessings  of  a  vigorous  mind  in  a  ^(?- 

CiZjf^^f  ^ot/y.  With  some  pertinent  reflections  of 
Seneca  upon  his  own  age,  304 

■ X.    Custom  is  a  great  matter  either  in  good  or 

i//.  We  should  check  our  passions  betimes. 
Involuntary  motions  are  invincible,  306 

XI.  We  are  divided  in  ourselves;  and  con- 
found good  and  evil,  309 

XII.   We  are  moved   at  the  novelty  of  things, 

for  want  of  understanding  the  reason  of  them,  312 

XIII.  Every  man  is  the  artificer  of  his  own  for- 
tune.    Of  justice  znd  injustice,  314 

XIV.   Of  trust  in  friendship,  prayer,  and  bodily 

exercise,  316 

XV.   The  danger  of  flattery;   and  in  what  cases 

a  man  may  be  allowed  to  commend  himself,         319 

XVI.   A  general  dissolution  of  manners;    with 

a  censure  of  corrupt  magistrates,  321 

XVII.   The  original  of  all   men   is  the   same; 

and  virtue  is  the  only  nobility.  There  is  a 
tenderness  due  to  servants,  324 

XVIII.   We  are  more  just  to  men  than  to  God. 

Of  life  and  death:  of  good  and  evil,  326 

XIX.   Of  true  courage,  330 


CONTENTS  xxvH 

Page 
Epistle    XX.    It  is  never  too  late  to  learn.     The  advan- 
tages of  a  private  life;    and  the  slavery  of  a 
public.     The  ends  of  punishments,  332 

XXL   The   two   blessings  of  life   are   a   sound 

body  and  a  quiet  mind.  The  extravagance  of 
the  Roman  luxury;  the  moderation  and  sim- 
plicity of  former  times,  336 

XXII.   Man  is  compounded  of  soul  and  body: 

and  has  naturally  a  civil  war  within  himself. 
The  difference  betwixt  a  life  of  virtue  and  a 
Wie  o^  pleasure,  339 

XXIII.   We    abuse    God's    blessings,    and    turn 

them  into  mischiefs.  Meditations  upon  the  hor- 
rors of  earthquakes,  and  consolations  against 
them.  Death  is  the  same  thing,  which  way 
soever  it  comes;  only  we  are  more  moved  by 
accidents  that  we  are  not  used  to,  342 

XXIV.   A  discourse  of  God's  providence  in  the 

misfortunes  of  good  men  in  this  world,  and  in 
the  prosperity  of  the  wicked,  346 

XXV.   A  wise  and  a  good  man  is  proof  against 

all  accidents.     Of  fate,  350 

XXVI.   All  things  are  produced  of  cause   and 

matter.  Of  Providence.  A  brave  man  is  a 
match  for  Fortune,  353 

XXVII.  Some  traditions  of  the  Ancients  con- 
cerning thunder  and  lightning;  with  the  Au- 
thor s  contemplations  thereupon,  356 

XXVIII.    A    contemplation     of    heaven,     and 

heavenly  things.     Of  God:  and  of  the  soul,  358 

Postscript,  365 

An  After-thought,  367 


SENECA  OF  BENEFITS. 

CHAP.  I. 

Of  Benetits  in  general. 

JLT  is,  perhaps,  one  of  the  most  pernicious  et^rors  of  a  rash 
and  inconsiderate  life,  the  common  ignorance  of  the  world  ia 
the  matter  of  exchanging  hencfils.  .  And  this  ai-ises  froip,  a  mis- 
take, partly  in  the  person  that  we  would  oblige,  and  partly  in 
the  thing  itself.  To  begin  with  the  latter;  "Abenfefitisa 
good  office,  done  with  intention  and  judgment;"  that  is  to  sayj 
witii  a  due  regard  to  all  tiie  circumstances  of  what,  how,  why, 
when,  where,  lo  ichom,  how  much,  and  the  like  :  or  otherwise  j 
'*  It  is  a  voluntary  and  benevolent  action,  that  delights  the  giver 
in  the  comfort  it  brings  to  the  receiver."  It  will  be  hard  to 
draw  this  subject,  either  into  method  or  compass ;  the  one, 
because  of  the  infinite  variety  and  complication  of  08=^63;  the 
other,  by  reason  of  the  large  extent  of  if :  for  the,v/)Lole  i- 
ness  (almost)  of  mankind  in  society  falls  under  this  head  •  e 
duties  of  kings  and  subjects,  husbands  and  wives,  parents  >i 
children,  masters  and  servants,  natives  and  str;  ngers,  high  and 
lovv,^ rich  and  poor,  strong  and  wcak^  friends  and  enemies. 
The  very  meditation  of  it  breeds  good  blood  and  generous 
thoughts ;  and  instructs  us  in  all  the  parts  of  honour,  humani- 
ty, fi'iendship,  piety,  gratitude,  pnjdence,  and  justice.  In  short, 
the  art  and  skill  of  conferring  benefits,  is,  of  all  humati  duties, 
the  most  absolutely  necessary  to  tiie  well-being,  both '  of 
reasonable  nature,  and  of  every  individual ;  as  the  veiy  cement 
of  all  communities,  and  the  blessing  of  particulars.  He  that 
does  good  to  another  man  docs  good  also  t6  himself;  not 
only  in  the  consequence,  but  in  the  veiy  act  of  doing  it;  for 
the  conscience  of  well-doing  is  an  ann^le  reward. 
.-  Of  benefits  in  general,  (here  are  several  sorts;  as 
TlPr,oi;i,  „cr»,  necessari/,  profitable,  and  dclif;htful.  ,  Some 
jiinjiis  necei,  ^\^■^^^„^  there  arc,  without  which  we  cannot 
^."T/r'''; , r  ;  ''^'e;  others  without  which  we  ought  not  to 
ana  aeiigiiij ui.     ,j^.g.    ^^j.  ^^^^^^  ^g^j^^  without  which  we 

will  not  live.    In  the  first  rank  are  those  which  delivec  us  from 


I 


SENECA  OF   BENEFITS 

CHAP.   I 

Of  Benefits  in  general 


T  is,  perhaps,  one  of  the  most  pernicious  errors  of  a  rash 
and  inconsiderate  life,  the  common  ignorance  of  the  world  in 
the  matter  of  exchanging  benefits.  And  this  arises  from  a  mis- 
take, partly  in  the  person  that  we  would  oblige,  and  partly  in 
the  thing  itself.  To  begin  with  the  latter;  "A  benefit  is  a 
good  office,  done  with  intention  and  judgment;"  that  is  to  say, 
with  a  due  regard  to  all  the  circumstances  of  what,  how,  ^hy, 
when,  where,  to  whom,  how  much,  and  the  like:  or  otherwise; 
"It  is  a  voluntary  and  benevolent  action,  that  delights  the  giver 
in  the  comfort  it  brings  to  the  receiver."  It  will  be  hard  to 
draw  this  subject,  either  into  method  or  compass;  the  one, 
because  of  the  infinite  variety  and  complication  of  cases;  the 
other,  by  reason  of  the  large  extent  of  it:  for  the  whole  busi- 
ness (almost)  of  mankind  in  society  falls  under  this  head;  the 
duties  of  kings  and  subjects,  husbands  and  wives,  parents  and 
children,  masters  and  servants,  natives  and  strangers,  high  and 
low,  rich  and  poor,  strong  and  weak,  friends  and  enemies. 
The  very  meditation  of  it  breeds  good  blood  and  generous 
thoughts;  and  instructs  us  in  all  the  parts  of  honour,  humani- 
ty, friendship,  piety,  gratitude,  prudence,  and  justice.  In  short, 
the  art  and  skill  of  conferring  benefits,  is,  of  all  human  duties, 
the  most  absolutely  necessary  to  the  well-being,  both  of 
reasonable  nature,  and  of  every  individual;  as  the  very  cement 
of  all  communities,  and  the  blessing  of  particulars.  He  that 
does  good  to  another  man  does  good  also  to  himself;  not 
only  in  the  consequence,  but  in  the  very  act  of  doing  it:  for 
the  conscience  of  well-doing  is  an  ample  reward. 

Of     benefits    in     general,    there     are     several     sorts;     as 
necessary,      profitable,     and     delightful.       Some 
things    there    are,    without    which    we    cannot    ^^^^fi^^  neces- 
live;     others   without   which    we    ought   not   to    ^"^^^dlhtf  /' 
live;      and     some,     again,    without    which    we 
will  not  live.     In  the  first  rank  are  those  which  deliver  us  from 


30  SENECA  OF  BENEFITS 

capital  dangers,  or  apprehensions  of  death:  and  the  favour  is 
rated  according  to  the  hazard:  for  the  greater  the  extremity, 
the  greater  seems  the  obhgation.  The  next  is  a  case  wherein 
we  may  indeed  Hve,  but  we  had  better  die:  as  in  the  question 
of  Uberty,  modesty,  and  a  good  conscience.  In  the  third  place, 
follow  those  things  which  custom,  use,  affinity,  and  acquaint- 
ance, have  made  dear  to  us:  as  husbands,  wives,  children, 
friends,  &c.  which  an  honest  man  will  preserve  at  his  utmost 
peril.  Of  things  profitable  there  is  a  large  field,  as  money, 
honour,  &c.  to  which  might  be  added,  matters  of  superfluity 
and  pleasure.  But  we  shall  open  a  way  to  the  circumstances 
of  a  benefit  by  some  previous  and  more  general  deliberations 
upon  the  thing  itself. 


CHAP.   II 

Several  sorts  of  Benefits 

We  shall  divide  benefits  into  absolute  and  vulgar;  the  one 
appertaining  to  good  life,  the  other  is  only  matter  of  com- 
merce. The  former  are  the  more  excellent, 
fnif«/f'°^"^'  because  they  can  never  be  made  void; 
whereas  all  material  benefits  are  tossed  back 
and  forward,  and  change  their  master.  There  are  some 
offices  that  look  like  benefits,  but  are  only  desirable  conve- 
niencies,  as  wealth,  &c.  and  these  a  wicked  man  may  receive 
from  a  good,  or  a  good  man  from  an  evil.  Others,  again,  that 
bear  the  face  of  injuries,  which  are  only  benefits  ill  taken;  as 
cutting,  lancing,  burning,  under  the  hand  of  a  surgeon.  The 
greatest  benefits  of  all  are  those  of  good  education,  which  we 
receive  from  our  parents,  either  in  the  state  of  ignorance  or 
perverseness;  as,  their  care  and  tenderness  in  our  infancy; 
their  discipline  in  our  childhood,  to  keep  us  to  our  duties  by 
fear;  and,  if  fair  means  will  not  do,  their  proceeding  after- 
wards to  severity  and  punishment,  without  which  we  should 
never  have  come  to  good.  There  are  matters  of  great  value, 
many  times,  that  are  but  of  small  price;  as  instructions  from 
a  tutor,  medicines  from  a  physician,  &c.  And  there  are 
small  matters  again,  which  are  of  great  consideration  to  us: 
the  gift  is  small,  and  the  consequence  great;  as  a  cup  of  cold 
water  in  a  time  of  need  may  save  a  man's  life.     Some  things 


SENECA  OF  BENEFITS  31 

are  of  great  moment  to  the  giver,  others  to  the  receiver:  one 
man  gives  me  a  house;  another  snatches  me  out  when  it  is 
faUing  upon  my  head;  one  gives  me  an  estate;  another  takes 
me  out  of  the  fire,  or  casts  me  out  a  rope  when  I  am  sinking. 
Some  good  offices  we  do  to  friends,  others  to  strangers;  but 
those  are  the  noblest  that  we  do  without  pre-desert.  There 
is  an  obligation  of  bounty,  and  an  obligation  of  charity;  this 
in  case  of  necessity,  and  that  in  point  of  convenience.  Some 
benefits  are  common,  others  are  personal;  as  if  a  prince  (out 
of  pure  grace)  grant  a  privilege  to  a  city,  the  obligation  lies 
upon  the  community,  and  only  upon  every  individual  as  a 
part  of  the  whole;  but  if  it  be  done  particularly  for  my  sake, 
then  am  I  singly  the  debtor  for  it.  The  cherishing  of  strangers 
is  one  of  the  duties  of  hospitality,  and  exercises  itself  in  the  re- 
lief and  protection  of  the  distressed.  There  are  benefits  of 
good  counsel,  reputation,  life,  fortune,  liberty,  health,  nay, 
and  of  superfluity  and  pleasure.  One  man  obliges  me  out  of 
his  pocket;  another  gives  me  matter  of  ornament  and  curiosity; 
a  third  consolation.  To  say  nothing  of  negative  benefits; 
for  there  are  that  reckon  it  an  obligation  if  they  do  a  body  no 
hurt;  and  place  it  to  account,  as  if  they  saved  a  man,  when 
they  do  not  undo  him.  To  shut  up  all  in  one  word;  as 
benevolence  is  the  most  sociable  of  all  virtues,  so  it  is  of  the 
largest  extent;  for  there  is  not  any  man,  either  so  great  or  so 
little,  but  he  is  yet  capable  of  giving  and  of  receiving  be- 
nefits. 


CHAP.   Ill 

A  son  may  oblige  his  father,  and  a  servant  his  master 

The  question  is  (in  the  first  place)  whether  it  may  not  be 
possible  for  a  father  to  owe  more  to  a  son,  in  other  respects, 
than  the  son  owes  to  his  father  for  his  being?  That 
many  sons  are  both  greater  and  better  than  their  fathers  there 
is  no  question;  as  there  are  many  other  things  that  derive 
their  beings  from  others,  which  yet  are  far  greater  than  their 
original.  Is  not  the  tree  larger  than  the  seed?  the  river  than 
the  fountain?  The  foundation  of  all  things  lies  hid,  and  the 
superstructure  obscures  it.  If  I  owe  all  to  my  father,  because 
he  gives  me  life,  I  may  owe  as  much  to  a  physician  that  saved 


32  SENECA  OF  BENEFITS 

his  life;  for  if  my  father  had  not  been  cured,  I  had  never  been 
begotten:  or,  if  I  stand  indebted  for  all  that  I  am  to  my  be- 
ginning, my  acknowledgment  must  run  back  to  the  very 
original  of  all  human  beings.  My  father  gave  me  the  benefit 
of  life;  which  he  had  never  done,  if  his  father  had  not  first 
given  it  to  him.  He  gave  me  life,  not  knowing  to  whom; 
and  when  I  was  in  a  condition  neither  to  feel  death  nor  to 
fear  it.  That  is  the  great  benefit,  to  give  life  to  one  that 
knows  how  to  use  it,  and  that  is  capable  of  the  apprehension 
of  death.  It  is  true,  that  without  a  father  I  could  never  have 
had  a  being;  and  so,  without  a  nurse,  that  being  had  never 
been  improved:  but  I  do  not  therefore  owe  my  virtue  either 
to  my  nativity  or  to  her  that  gave  me  suck.  The  generation 
of  me  was  the  least  part  of  the  benefit:  for  to  live  is  common 
with  brutes;  but  to  live  well  is  the  main  business;  and  that 
virtue  is  all  my  own,  saving  what  I  drew  from  my  education. 
It  does  not  follow  that  the  first  benefit  must  be  the  greatest^ 
because  without  the  first  the  greatest  could  never  have  been. 
The  father  gives  life  to  the  son  but  once;  but  if  the  son  save 
the  father's  life  often,  though  he  do  but  his  duty,  it  is  yet  a 
greater  benefit.  And  again,  the  benefit  that  a  man  receives  is 
the  greater,  the  more  he  needs  it;  but  the  living  has  more 
need  of  life  than  he  that  is  not  yet  born;  so  that  the  father  re- 
ceives a  greater  benefit  in  the  continuance  of  his  life  than  the 
son  in  the  beginning  of  it.  What  if  a  son  deliver  his  father 
from  the  rack;  or,  which  is  more,  lay  himself  down  in  his 
place?  The  giving  of  him  a  being  was  but  the  office  of  a 
father;  a  simple  act,  a  benefit  given  at  a  venture:  beside 
that,  he  had  a  participant  in  it,  and  a  regard  to  his  family. 
He  gave  only  a  single  life,  and  he  received  a  happy  one.  My 
mother  brought  me  into  the  world  naked,  exposed,  and  void 
of  reason;  but  my  reputation  and  my  fortune  are  advanced 
by  my  virtue.  Scipio  (as  yet  in  his  minority)  rescued  his 
father  in  a  battle  with  Hannibal,  and  afterward  from  the 
practices  and  prosecution  of  a  powerful  faction;  covering  him 
with  consulary  honours,  and  the  spoils  of  public  enemies. 
He  made  himself  as  eminent  for  his  moderation  as  for  his 
piety  and  military  knowledge:  he  was  the  defender  and  the 
establisher  of  his  country:  he  left  the  empire  without  a  com- 
petitor, and  made  himself  as  well  the  ornament  of  Rome  as 
the  security  of  it:  and  did  not  Scipio,  in  all  this,  more  than 
requite  his  father  barely  for  begetting  of  him?  Whether  did 
Anchises  more  for  iEneas,  in  dandling  the  child  in  his  arms; 


SENECA  OF  BENEFITS  33 

or  ^neas  for  his  father,  when  he  carried  him  upon  his  back 
through  the  flames  of  Troy,  and  made  his  name  famous  to  fu- 
ture ages  among  the  founders  of  the  Roman  Empire?  T. 
ManHus  was  the  son  of  a  sour  and  imperious  father,  who  ban- 
ished him  his  house  as  a  blockhead,  and  a  scandal  to  the 
family.  This  Manlius,  hearing  that  his  father's  life  was  in  ques- 
tion, and  a  day  set  for  his  trial,  went  to  the  tribune  that  was 
concerned  in  his  cause,  and  discoursed  him  about  it:  the  tri- 
bune told  him  the  appointed  time,  and  withal  (as  an  obliga- 
tion upon  the  young  man)  that  his  cruelty  to  his  son  would  be 
part  of  his  accusation.  Manlius,  upon  this,  takes  the  tribune 
aside,  and  presenting  a  poniard  to  his  breast,  "Swear,"  says 
he,  "that  you  will  let  this  cause  fall,  or  you  shall  have  this 
dagger  in  the  heart  of  you;  and  now  it  is  at  your  choice 
which  way  you  will  deliver  my  father."  The  tribune  swore 
and  kept  his  word,  and  made  a  fair  report  of  the  whole  mat- 
ter to  the  council.  He  that  makes  himself  famous  by  his  elo- 
quence, justice,  or  arms,  illustrates  his  extraction,  let  it  be 
never  so  mean;  and  gives  inestimable  reputation  to  his  pa- 
rents. We  should  never  have  heard  of  Sophroniscus,  but  for 
his  son  Socrates:  nor  of  Aristo  and  Gryllus,  if  it  had  not 
been  for  Xenophon  and  Plato. 

This  is  not  to  discountenance  the  veneration  we  owe  to 
parents;  nor  to  make  children  the  worse,  but  the  better;  and 
to  stir  up  generous  emulations:  for,  in  contests  of  good  offices, 
both  parts  are  happy;  as  well  the  vanquished  as  those  that 
overcome.  It  is  the  only  honourable  dispute  that  can  arise 
betwixt  a  father  and  a  son,  which  of  the  two  shall  have  the 
better  of  the  other  in  the  point  of  benefits. 

In  the  question  betwixt  a  master  and  a  servant,  we  must 
distinguish    betwixt    benefits,    duties,    and    ac- 
tions   ministerial.         By    benefits,    we    under-    ^J^'^l^^  ^^y 

J        ,  1        rr  ■    1  •  ooLtge  bis  master 

stand     those    good     omces    that    we     receive 

from  strangers,  which  are  voluntary,  and  may  be  forborne 
without  blame.  Duties  are  the  parts  of  a  son  and  wife,  and 
incumbent  upon  kindred  and  relations.  Offices  ministerial  be- 
long to  the  part  of  a  servant.  Now,  since  it  is  the  mind,  and 
not  the  condition  of  a  person,  that  prints  the  value  upon  the 
benefit,  a  servant  may  oblige  his  master,  and  so  may  a  sub- 
ject his  sovereign,  or  a  common  soldier  his  general,  by  doing 
more  than  he  is  expressly  bound  to  do.  Some  things  there 
are,  which  the  law  neither  commands  nor  forbids;  and  here 
the  servant  is  free.     It  would  be  very  hard  for  a  servant  to  be 


34  SENECA  OF  BENEFITS 

chastised  for  doing  less  than  his  duty,  and  not  thanked  for  it 
when  he  does  more.  His  body,  it  is  true,  is  his  master's,  but 
his  mind  is  his  own:  and  there  are  many  commands  which 
a  servant  ought  no  more  to  obey  than  a  master  to  impose. 
There  is  no  man  so  great,  but  he  may  both  need  the  help  and 
service,  and  stand  in  fear  of  the  power  and  unkindness, 
even  of  the  meanest  of  mortals.  One  servant  kills  his  mas- 
ter; another  saves  him,  nay,  preserves  his  master's  life,  per- 
haps, with  the  loss  of  his  own:  he  exposes  himself  to  tor- 
ment and  death;  he  stands  firm  against  all  threats  and  bat- 
teries: which  is  not  only  a  benefit  in  a  servant,  but  much  the 
greater  for  his  being  so. 

When  Domitius  was  besieged  in  Corfinium,  and  the  place 
brought  to  great  extremity,  he  pressed  his  servant  so  earnest- 
ly to  poison  him,  that  at  last  he  was  prevailed  upon  to  give 
him  a  potion;  which,  it  seems,  was  an  innocent  opiate,  and 
Domitius  outlived  it:  Caesar  took  the  town,  and  gave  Domi- 
tius his  life,  but  it  was  his  servant  that  gave  it  him  first. 

There  was  another  town  besieged,  and  when  it  was  upon 
the  last  pinch,  two  servants  made  their  escape,  and  went  over 
to  the  enemy:  upon  the  Romans  entering  the  town,  and  In 
the  heat  of  the  soldiers'  fury,  these  two  fellows  ran  directly 
home,  took  their  mistress  out  of  her  house,  and  drave  her 
before  them,  telling  every  body  how  barbarously  she  had 
used  them  formerly,  and  that  they  would  now  have  their  re- 
venge; when  they  had  her  without  the  gates,  they  kept  her 
close  till  the  danger  was  over;  by  which  means  they  gave 
their  mistress  her  life,  and  she  gave  them  their  freedom. 
This  was  not  the  action  of  a  servile  mind,  to  do  so  glorious 
a  thing,  under  an  appearance  of  so  great  a  villany;  for  if 
they  had  not  passed  for  deserters  and  parricides,  they  could 
not  have  gained  their  end. 

With  one  instance  more  (and  that  a  very  brave  one)  I  shall 
conclude  this  chapter. 

In  the  civil  wars  of  Rome,  a  party  coming  to  search  for  a 
person  of  quality  that  was  proscribed,  a  servant  put  on  his 
master's  clothes,  and  delivered  himself  up  to  the  soldiers  as 
the  master  of  the  house;  he  was  taken  into  custody,  and  put 
to  death,  without  discovering  the  mistake.  What  could  be 
more  glorious,  than  for  a  servant  to  die  for  his  master,  in  that 
age,  when  there  were  not  many  servants  that  would  not  be- 
tray their  masters?  So  generous  a  tenderness  in  a  public  cru- 
elty;  so   invincible   a   faith   in   a   general     corruption;    what 


SENECA  OF  BENEFITS  35 

could  be  more  glorious,  I  say,  than  so  exalted  a  virtue,  as 
rather  to  choose  death  for  the  reward  of  his  fidelity,  than  the 
greatest  advantages  he  might  otherwise  have  had  for  the  vio- 
lation of  it! 


CHAP.   IV 

It  is  the  intention,  not  the  matter,  that  makes  the  benefit 

The  good-will  of  the  benefactor  is  the  fountain  of  all  bene- 
fits; nay,  it  is  the  benefit  itself,  or,  at  least  the  stamp  that 
makes  it  valuable  and  current.  Some  there  are,  I  know, 
that  take  the  matter  for  the  benefit,  and  tax  the  obligation  by 
weight  and  measure.  When  any  thing  is  given  them,  they 
presently  cast  it  up;  "What  may  such  a  house  be  worth? 
such  an  office?  such  an  estate?"  as  if  that  were  the  benefit 
which  is  only  the  sign  and  mark  of  it:  for  the  obligation 
rests  in  the  mind,  not  in  the  matter;  and  all  those  advan- 
tages which  we  see,  handle,  or  hold  in  actual  possession  by 
the  courtesy  of  another,  are  but  several  modes  or  ways  of 
explaining  and  putting  the  good  will  in  execution.  There 
needs  no  great  subtlety  to  prove,  that  both  benefits  and  inju- 
ries receive  their  value  from  the  intention,  when  even  brutes 
themselves  are  able  to  decide  this  question.  Tread  upon  a 
dog  by  chance,  or  put  him  to  pain  upon  the  dressing  of  a 
wound;  the  one  he  passes  by  as  an  accident;  and  the  other, 
in  his  fashion,  he  acknowledges  as  a  kindness:  but,  offer  to 
strike  at  him,  though  you  do  him  no  hurt  at  all,  he  flies  yet  in  the 
face  of  you,  even  for  the  mischief  that  you  barely  meant  him. 

It  is  further  to  be  observed,  that  all  benefits  are  good;   and 
(like  the  distributions  of  Providence)  made  up 
of  wisdom  and  bounty;    whereas  the  gift  itself  en^jits 

is  neither  good  nor  bad,  but  may  indifferently 
be  applied,  either  to  the  one  or  to  the  other.  The  benefit  is 
immortal,  the  gift  perishable:  for  the  benefit  itself  continues 
when  we  have  no  longer  either  the  use  or  the  matter  of  it. 
He  that  is  dead  was  alive;  he  that  hath  lost  his  eyes,  did  see; 
and,  whatsoever  is  done,  cannot  be  rendered  undone.  My 
friend  (for  instance)  is  taken  by  pirates;  I  redeem  him;  and 
after  that  he  falls  into  other  pirates'  hands;  his  obligation  to 
me  is  the  same  still  as  if  he  had  preserved  his  freedom.     And 


36  SENECA  OF  BENEFITS 

so,  if  I  save  a  man  from  any  misfortune,  and  he  falls  into 
another;  if  I  give  him  a  sum  of  money,  which  is  afterwards 
taken  away  by  thieves;  it  comes  to  the  same  case.  Fortune 
may  deprive  us  of  the  matter  of  a  benefit,  but  the  benefit 
itself  remains  inviolable.  If  the  benefit  resided  in  the  mat- 
ter, that  which  is  good  for  one  man  would  be  so  for  another; 
whereas  many  times  the  very  same  thing,  given  to  several 
persons,  works  contrary  effects,  even  to  the  difference  of  life 
or  death;  and  that  which  is  one  body's  cure  proves  another 
body's  poison.  Beside  that,  the  timeing  of  it  alters  the 
value;  and  a  crust  of  bread,  upon  a  pinch,  is  a  greater  pre- 
sent than  an  imperial  crown.  What  is  more  familiar  than  in 
a  battle  to  shoot  at  an  enemy  and  kill  a  friend?  or,  instead 
of  a  friend,  to  save  an  enemy?  But  yet  this  disappointment, 
in  the  event,  does  not  at  all  operate  upon  the  intention. 
What  if  a  man  cures  me  of  a  wen  with  a  stroke  that  was  de- 
signed to  cut  off  my  head?  or,  with  a  malicious  blow  upon 
my  stomach,  breaks  an  imposthume?  or,  what  if  he  saves 
my  life  with  a  draught  that  was  prepared  to  poison  me?  The 
providence  of  the  issue  does  not  at  all  discharge  the  obliquity 
of  the  intent.  And  the  same  reason  holds  good  even  in  re- 
ligion itself.  It  is  not  the  incense,  or  the  offering,  that  is  ac- 
ceptable to  God,  but  the  purity  and  devotion  of  the  worship- 
per: neither  is  the  bare  will,  without  action,  sufficient,  that 
is,  where  we  have  the  means  of  acting;  for,  in  that  case,  it 
signifies  as  little  to  wish  well,  without  well-doing,  as  to  do 
good  without  willing  it.  There  must  be  effect  as  well  as  in- 
tention, to  make  me  owe  a  benefit;  but,  to  will  against  it, 
does  wholly  discharge  it.  In  fine,  the  conscience  alone  is 
the  judge,  both  of  benefits  and  injuries. 

It  does  not  follow  now,   because  the  benefit  rests  in  the 

good-will,  that  therefore  the  good-will  should 
The  good-will  ^g  always  a  benefit;  for  if  it  be  not  accom- 
must  be  accom-  ponied  with  government  and  discretion, 
judgment  those   ofiices,   which   we   call   benefits,   are    but 

the  works  of  passion,  or  of  chance;  and 
many  times,  the  greatest  of  all  injuries.  One  man  does  me 
good  by  mistake;  another  ignorantly;  a  third  upon  force: 
but  none  of  these  cases  do  I  take  to  be  an  obligation:  for 
they  were  neither  directed  to  me,  nor  was  there  any  kind- 
ness of  intention:  we  do  not  thank  the  seas  for  the  advan- 
tages we  receive  by  navigation;  or  the  rivers  for  supplying 
us  with  fish  and  flowing  of  our  grounds;    we  do  not  thank 


SENECA  OF  BENEFITS  37 

the  trees  either  for  their  fruits  or  shades,  or  the  winds  for  a 
fair  gale;  and  what  is  the  difference  betwixt  a  reasonable 
creature  that  does  not  know  and  an  inanimate  that  cannot? 
A  good  horse  saves  one  man's  life;  a  good  suit  of  arms 
another's;  and  a  man,  perhaps,  that  never  intended  it,  saves 
a  third.  Where  is  the  difference  now  betwixt  the  obligation 
of  one  and  of  the  other?  A  man  falls  into  a  river,  and  the 
fright  cures  him  of  the  ague;  we  may  call  this  a  kind  of 
lucky  mischance,  but  not  a  remedy.  And  so  it  is  with  the 
good  we  receive,  either  without,  or  beside,  or  contrary  to  in- 
tention. It  is  the  mind,  and  not  the  event,  that  distinguishes 
a  benefit  from  an  injury. 


CHAP.   V 

There  must  be  judgment  in  a  benefit^  as  well  as  matter 
and  intention;  and  especially  in  the  choice  of  the  person 

As  it  is  the  will  that  designs  the  benefit,  and  the  matter  that 
conveys  it,  so  it  is  the  judgment  that  perfects  it;  which  de- 
pends upon  so  many  critical  niceties,  that  the  least  error, 
either  in  the  person,  the  matter,  the  manner,  the  quality,  the 
quantity,  the  time,  or  the  place,  spoils  all. 

The  consideration  of  the  person  is  a  main  point:  for  we 
are    to    give    by    choice,    and    not    by  hazard. 

My  inclination  bids  me  oblige  one  man;    I  am      ,     choice  of 
,  ,    .        ,  ,     .        .      °  ,  the  person  is  a 

bound   m   duty   and  justice   to   serve   anotrier;    ^■\,  .■^. 
.     .  ,       .  .  ...  ,      ,  mam  point 

here  it  is  a  charity,  there  it  is  pity;  and  else- 
where, perhaps,  encouragement.  There  are  some  that  want, 
to  whom  I  would  not  give;  because,  if  I  did,  they  would  want 
still.  To  one  man  I  would  barely  offer  a  benefit;  but  I  would 
press  it  upon  another.  To  say  the  truth,  we  do  not  employ 
any  money  to  more  profit  than  that  which  we  bestow;  and  it 
is  not  to  our  friends,  our  acquaintances  or  countrymen,  nor  to 
this  or  that  condition  of  men,  that  we  are  to  restrain  our 
bounties;  but  wheresoever  there  is  a  man,  there  is  a  place 
and  occasion  for  a  benefit.  We  give  to  some  that  are  good 
already;  to  others,  in  hope  to  make  them  so:  but  we  must 
do  all  with  discretion;  for  we  are  as  well  answerable  for 
what  we  give  as  for  what  we  receive;  nay,  the  misplacing  of 
a  benefit  is  worse  than  the  not  receiving  of  it;    for  the  one  is 


38  SENECA  OF  BENEFITS 

another  man's  fault;  but  the  other  is  mine.  The  error  of  the 
giver  does  oft-times  excuse  the  ingratitude  of  the  receiver: 
for  a  favour  ill  placed  is  rather  a  profusion  than  a  benefit.  It 
is  the  most  shameful  of  losses,  an  inconsiderate  bounty.  I 
will  choose  a  man  of  integrity,  sincere,  considerate,  grateful, 
temperate,  well  natured,  neither  covetous  nor  sordid:  and 
when  I  have  obliged  such  a  man,  though  not  worth  a  groat  in 
the  world,  I  have  gained  my  end.  If  we  give  only  to  receive, 
we  lose  the  fairest  objects  for  our  charity:  the  absent,  the  sick, 
the  captive,  and  the  needy.  When  we  oblige  those  that  can 
never  pay  us  again  in  kind,  as  a  stranger  upon  his  last  fare- 
well, or  a  necessitous  person  upon  his  death-bed,  we  make 
Providence  our  debtor,  and  rejoice  in  the  conscience  even  of 
a  fruitless  benefit.  So  long  as  we  are  affected  with  passions, 
and  distracted  with  hopes  and  fears,  and  (the  most  unmanly 
of  vices)  with  our  pleasures,  we  are  incompetent  judges 
where  to  place  our  bounties:  but  when  death  presents  itself, 
and  that  we  come  to  our  last  will  and  testament,  we  leave 
our  fortunes  to  the  most  worthy.  He  that  gives  nothing,  but 
in  hopes  of  receiving,  must  die  intestate.  It  is  the  honesty 
of  another  man's  mind  that  moves  the  kindness  of  mine; 
and  I  would  sooner  oblige  a  grateful  man  than  an  ungrateful: 
but  this  shall  not  hinder  me  from  doing  good  also  to  a  person 
that  is  known  to  be  ungrateful:  only  with  this  diflference,  that 
I  will  serve  the  one  in  all  extremities  with  my  life  and  for- 
tune, and  the  other  no  farther  than  stands  with  my  conve- 
nience. But  what  shall  I  do,  you  will  say,  to  know  whether  a 
man  will  be  grateful  or  not?  I  will  follow  probability,  and 
hope  the  best.  He  that  sows  is  not  sure  to  reap;  nor  the 
seaman  to  reach  his  port;  nor  the  soldier  to  win  the  field:  he 
that  weds  is  not  sure  his  wife  shall  be  honest,  or  his  children 
dutiful:  but  shall  we  therefore  neither  sow,  sail,  bear  arms, 
nor  marry?  Nay,  if  I  knew  a  man  to  be  incurably  thankless, 
I  would  yet  be  so  kind  as  to  put  him  in  his  way,  or  let  him 
light  a  candle  at  mine,  or  draw  water  at  my  well;  which  may 
stand  him  perhaps  in  great  stead,  and  yet  not  be  reckoned  as  a 
benefit  from  me;  for  I  do  it  carelessly,  and  not  for  his  sake, 
but  my  own;  as  an  office  of  humanity,  without  any  choice 
or  kindness. 


SENECA  OF  BENEFITS  39 

CHAP.    VI 

The  matter  of  ohligationSy  with  its  circumstances 

NexT  to  the  choice  of  the  person  follows  that  of  the  mat- 
ter; wherein  a  regard  must  be  had  to  time,  place,  proportion, 
quality;  and  to  the  very  nicks  of  opportunity  and  humour. 
One  man  values  his  peace  above  his  honour,  another  his 
honour  above  his  safety;  and  not  a  few  there  are  that  (pro- 
vided they  may  save  their  bodies)  never  care  what  becomes  of 
their  souls.  So  that  good  offices  depend  much  upon  con- 
struction. Some  take  themselves  to  be  obliged,  when  they 
are  not;  others  will  not  believe  it,  when  they  are;  and  some 
again  take  obligations  and  injuries,  the  one  for  the  other. 

For  our  better  direction,  let  it  be  noted,  "That  a  benefit 
is  a  common  tie  betwixt  the  giver  and  re- 
ceiver, with  respect  to  both:"  wherefore,  it  A  benefit  is  a 
must  be  accommodate  to  the  rules  of  discre-  ^^T^'^!^  ^^ 
tion;  for  all  things  have  their  bounds  and  ^^j  receiver 
measures,  and  so  must  liberality  among  the 
rest;  that  it  be  neither  too  much  for  the  one  nor  too  little  for 
the  other;  the  excess  being  every  jot  as  bad  as  the  defect. 
Alexander  bestowed  a  city  upon  one  of  his  favourites;  who 
modestly  excusing  himself,  "That  it  was  too  much  for  him 
to  receive."  "Well,  but,"  says  Alexander,  "it  is  not  too 
much  for  me  to  give."  A  haughty  certainty,  and  an  impru- 
dent speech;  for  that  which  was  not  fit  for  the  one  to  take 
could  not  be  fit  for  the  other  to  give.  It  passes  in  the  world 
for  greatness  of  mind  to  be  perpetually  giving  and  loading  of 
people  with  bounties;  but  it  is  one  thing  to  know  how  to  give, 
and  another  thing  not  to  know  how  to  keep.  Give  me  a  heart 
that  is  easy  and  open,  but  I  will  have  no  holes  in  it;  let  it  be 
bountiful  with  judgment,  but  I  will  have  nothing  run  out  of  it 
I  know  not  how.  How  much  greater  was  he  that  refused  the 
city  than  the  other  that  offered  it?  Some  men  throw  away 
their  money  as  if  they  were  angry  with  it,  which  is  the  error 
commonly  of  weak  minds  and  large  fortunes.  No  man  es- 
teems of  any  thing  that  comes  to  him  by  chance;  but  when  it 
is  governed  by  reason,  it  brings  credit  both  to  the  giver  and 
receiver;  whereas  those  favours  are,  in  some  sort,  scandalous, 
that  make  a  man  ashamed  of  his  patron. 


40  SENECA  OF  BENEFITS 

It  is  a  matter  of  great  prudence,  for  the  benefactor  to  suit 

the  benefit  to  the  condition  of  the  receiver; 
A  benefit  must  ^\yQ  must  be,  either  his  superior,  his  infe- 
be  suited  to  the        ^-  ^^    j^-^     ^         j        ^^j     ^^^^    ^^^^^     ^^^jj 

condition  of  the       ,  ,        i  •   i  i  i-        •  •  •      i  i  i 

receiver  "^   ^"^   highest   obligation   imaginable    to   the 

one,  would  perhaps,  be  as  great  a  mockery 
and  affront  to  the  other:  as  a  plate  of  broken  meat  (for  the 
purpose)  to  a  rich  man  were  an  indignity,  which  to  a  poor 
man  is  a  charity.  The  benefits  of  princes  and  of  great  men, 
are  honours,  offices,  monies,  profitable  commissions,  coun- 
tenance, and  protection:  the  poor  man  has  nothing  to  pre- 
sent but  good-will,  good  advice,  faith,  industry,  the  service 
and  hazard  of  his  person,  an  early  apple,  peradventure,  or 
some  other  cheap  curiosity:  equals  indeed  may  correspond 
in  kind;  but  whatsoever  the  present  be,  or  to  whomsoever 
we  offer  it,  this  general  rule  must  be  observed,  that  we  always 
design  the  good  and  satisfaction  of  the  receiver,  and  never 
grant  any  thing  to  his  detriment.  It  is  not  for  a  man  to  say, 
I  was  overcome  by  importunity;  for  when  the  fever  is  off, 
we  detest  the  man  that  was  prevailed  upon  to  our  destruction. 
I  will  no  more  undo  a  man  with  his  will,  than  forbear  saving 
him  against  it.  It  is  a  benefit  in  some  cases  to  grant,  and  in 
others  to  deny;  so  that  we  are  rather  to  consider  the  advan- 
tage than  the  desire  of  the  petitioner.  For  we  may  in  a  pas- 
sion earnestly  beg  for  (and  take  it  ill  to  be  denied  too)  that 
very  thing,  which,  upon  second  thoughts,  we  may  come  to 
curse,  as  the  occasion  of  a  most  pernicious  bounty.  Never 
give  anything  that  shall  turn  to  mischief,  infamy,  or  shame. 
I  will  consider  another  man's  want  or  safety;  but  so  as  not  to 
forget  my  own;  unless  in  the  case  of  a  very  excellent  per- 
son, and  then  I  shall  not  much  heed  what  becomes  of  myself. 
There  is  no  giving  of  water  to  a  man  in  a  fever;  or  putting 
a  sword  into  a  madman's  hand.  He  that  lends  a  man  money 
to  carry  him  to  a  bawdy-house,  or  a  weapon  for  his  revenge, 
makes  himself  a  partaker  of  his  crime. 

He  that  would  make  an  acceptable  present,  will  pitch  upon 

something  that  is  desired,  sought  for,  and  hard 
fusTnt^^''^^'        to  be  found;   that  which  he  sees  no  where  else, 

and  which  few  have;  or  at  least  not  in  that 
place  or  season;  something  that  may  be  always  in  his  eye, 
and  mind  him  of  his  benefactor.  If  it  be  lasting  and  dura- 
ble, so  much  the  better;  as  plate,  rather  than  money;  statutes, 
than  apparel;    for  it  will  serve  as  a  monitor  to  mind  the  re- 


SENECA  OF  BENEFITS  41 

celver  of  the  obligation,  which  the  presenter  cannot  so  hand- 
somely do.  However,  let  it  not  be  improper,  as  arms  to  a 
woman,  books  to  a  clown,  toys  to  a  philosopher:  I  will  not  give 
to  any  man  that  which  he  cannot  receive,  as  if  I  threw  a  ball 
to  a  man  without  hands;  but  I  will  make  a  return,  though  he 
cannot  receive  it;  for  my  business  is  not  to  oblige  him,  but 
to  free  myself:  nor  any  thing  that  may  reproach  a  man  of  his 
vice  or  infirmity;  as  false  dice  to  a  cheat;  spectacles  to  a 
man  that  is  blind.  Let  it  not  be  unseasonable  neither;  as  a 
furred  gown  in  summer,  an  umbrella  in  winter.  It  enhances 
the  value  of  the  present,  if  it  was  never  given  to  him  by  any 
body  else,  nor  by  me  to  any  other;  for  that  which  we  give  to 
every  body,  is  welcome  to  no  body.  The  particularity  does 
much,  but  yet  the  same  thing  may  receive  a  different  estimate 
from  several  persons;  for  there  are  ways  of  marking  and  re- 
commending it  in  such  a  manner,  that  if  the  same  good  office 
be  done  to  twenty  people,  every  one  of  them  shall  reckon 
himself  peculiarly  obliged;  as  a  cunning  whore,  if  she  has  a 
thousand  sweethearts,  will  persuade  every  one  of  them  she 
loves  him  best.  But  this  is  rather  the  artifice  of  conversation 
than  the  virtue  of  it. 

The  citizens  of  Megara  send  ambassadors  to  Alexander,  in 
the  height  of  his  glory,  to  offer  him,  as  a 
compliment,  the  freedom  of  their  city.  Upon  f  ^^  ^!^'  present 
Alexander's  smiling  at  the  proposal,  they  told 
him,  that  it  was  a  present  which  they  had  never  made  but  to 
Hercules  and  himself.  Whereupon  Alexander  treated  them 
kindly,  and  accepted  of  it;  not  for  the  presenters'  sake,  but 
because  they  had  joined  him  with  Hercules;  how  unreason- 
ably soever:  for  Hercules  conquered  nothing  for  himself,  but 
made  his  business  to  vindicate  and  to  protect  the  miserable, 
without  any  private  interest  or  design;  but  this  intemperate 
young  man  (whose  virtue  was  nothing  else  but  a  successful 
temerity)  was  trained  up  from  his  youth  in  the  trade  of  vio- 
lence; the  common  enemy  of  mankind,  as  well  of  his  friends, 
as  of  his  foes,  and  one  that  valued  himself  upon  being  terrible 
to  all  mortals:  never  considering,  that  the  dullest  creatures 
are  as  dangerous  and  as  dreadful,  as  the  fiercest;  for  the  poi- 
son of  a  toad,  or  the  tooth  of  a  snake,  will  do  a  man's  busi- 
ness, as  sure  as  the  paw  of  a  tiger. 


42  SENECA  OF  BENEFITS 

CHAP.   VII 

The  manner  of  obliging 

There  is  not  any  benefit  so  glorious  in  itself,  but  it  may 
yet  be  exceedingly  sweetened  and  improved  by  the  manner 
of  conferring  it.  The  virtue,  I  know,  rests  in  the  intent,  the 
profit  in  the  judicious  application  of  the  matter;  but  the 
beauty  and  ornament  of  an  obligation  lies  in  the  manner  of 
it;  and  it  is  then  perfect  when  the  dignity  of  the  office  is  ac- 
companied with  all  the  charms  and  delicacies  of  humanity, 
good-nature,  and  address;  and  with  despatch  too;  for  he  that 
puts  a  man  off  from  time  to  time,  was  never  right  at  heart. 

In  the  first  place,  whatsoever  we  give,  let  us  do  it  frankly: 

n-     r     ,,  a  kind  benefactor  makes  a  man  happy  as  soon 

Give  frankly  ,  ,  ,  ,        ^^•' 

as    he    can,    and    as    much    as    he    can.      Ihere 

should  be  no  delay  in  a  benefit  but  the  modesty  of  the  re- 
ceiver. If  we  cannot  foresee  the  request,  let  us,  however, 
immediately  grant  it,  and  by  no  means  suffer  the  repeating  of 
it.  It  is  so  grievous  a  thing  to  say,  I  BEG;  the  very  word 
puts  a  man  out  of  countenance;  and  it  is  a  double  kindness 
to  do  the  thing,  and  save  an  honest  man  the  confusion  of  a 
blush.  It  comes  too  late  that  comes  for  the  asking:  for  no- 
thing costs  us  so  dear  as  that  we  purchase  with  our  prayers: 
it  is  all  we  give,  even  for  heaven  itself;  and  even  there  too, 
where  our  petitions  are  at  the  fairest,  we  choose  rather  to 
present  them  in  secret  ejaculations  than  by  word  of  mouth. 
That  is  the  lasting  and  the  acceptable  benefit  that  meets  the 
receiver  half  way.  The  rule  is,  we  are  to  give,  as  we  would 
receive,  cheerfully,  quickly,  and  without  hesitation;  for  there 
is  no  grace  in  a  benefit  that  sticks  to  the  fingers.  Nay,  if 
there  should  be  occasion  for  delay,  let  us,  however,  not  seem 
to  deliberate;  for  demurring  is  next  door  to  denying;  and  so 
long  as  we  suspend,  so  long  are  we  unwilling.  It  is  a  court- 
humour  to  keep  people  upon  the  tenters;  their  injuries  are 
quick  and  sudden,  but  their  benefits  are  slow.  Great  minis- 
ters love  to  rack  men  with  attendance,  and  account  it  an  os- 
tentation of  their  power  to  hold  their  suitors  in  hand,  and  to 
have  many  witnesses  of  their  interest.  A  benefit  should  be 
made  acceptable  by  all  possible  means,  even  to  the  end  that 
the  receiver,  who  is  never  to  forget  it,  may  bear  it  in  his  mind 


SENECA  OF  BENEFITS  43 

with  satisfaction.  There  must  be  no  mixture  of  sourness, 
severity,  contumely,  or  reproof,  with  our  obUgations;  nay, 
in  case  there  should  be  any  occasion  for  so  much  as  an  admo- 
nition, let  it  be  referred  to  another  time.  We  are  a  great 
deal  apter  to  remember  injuries  than  benefits;  and  it  is 
enough  to  forgive  an  obligation  that  has  the  nature  of  an 
offence. 

There  are  some  that  spoil  a  good  office  after  it  is  done;  and 
others,  in  the  very  instant  of  doing  it.  ^.  ,  ,  ,, 
There  be  so  much  entreaty  and  importuni- 
ty: nay,  if  we  do  but  suspect  a  petitioner,  we  put  on  a  sour 
face;  look  another  way;  pretend  haste,  company,  business; 
talk  of  other  matters,  and  keep  him  off  with  artificial  delays, 
let  his  necessities  be  never  so  pressing;  and  when  we  are  put 
to  it  at  last,  it  comes  so  hard  from  us  that  it  is  rather  extorted 
than  obtained;  and  not  so  properly  the  giving  of  a  bounty,  as 
the  quitting  of  a  man's  hold  upon  the  tug,  when  another  is 
too  strong  for  him;  so  that  this  is  but  doing  one  kindness  for 
me,  and  another  for  himself:  he  gives  for  his  own  quiet, 
after  he  has  tormented  me  with  difficulties  and  delays.  The 
manner  of  saying  or  of  doing  any  thing,  goes  a  great  way  in 
the  value  of  the  thing  itself.  It  was  well  said  of  him  that 
called  a  good  office,  that  was  done  harshly,  and  with  an  ill 
will,  a  stony  piece  of  bread;  it  is  necessary  for  him  that  is 
hungry  to  receive  it,  but  it  almost  chokes  a  man  in  the  going 
down.  There  must  be  no  pride,  arrogance  of  looks,  or 
tumour  of  words,  in  the  bestowing  of  benefits;  no  insolence 
of  behaviour,  but  a  modesty  of  mind,  and  a  deligent  care  to 
catch  at  occasions  and  prevent  necessities.  A  pause,  an  un- 
kind tone,  word,  look,  or  action,  destroys  the  grace  of  a 
courtesy.  It  corrupts  a  bounty,  when  it  is  accompanied 
with  state,  haughtiness,  and  elation  of  mind,  in  the  giving  of 
it.  Some  have  the  trick  of  shifting  off  a  suitor  with  a  point 
of  wit,  or  a  cavil.  As  in  the  case  of  the  Cynic  that  begged  a 
talent  of  Antigonus,  "That  is  too  much,"  says  he,  "for  a 
Cynic  to  ask;"  and  when  he  fell  to  a  penny,  "That  is  too 
little,"  says  he,  "for  a  prince  to  give."  He  might  have  found 
a  way  to  have  compounded  this  controversy,  by  giving  him  a 
-penny  as  to  a  Cynic,  and  a  talent  as  from  a  prince.  Whatso- 
ever we  bestow,  let  it  be  done  with  a  frank  and  cheerful 
countenance:  a  man  must  not  give  with  his  hand,  and  deny 
with  his  looks.     He  that  gives  quickly,  gives  willingly. 


44  SENECA  OF  BENEFITS 

We  are  likewise  to  accompany  good  deeds  with  good  words, 

and    say,     (for    the    purpose,)     "Why    should 

Accompany  y^^  make  such   a  matter  of  this  ?       why  did 

pood  deeds  with  ^  ^  3  u  i  j 

^    J       J  not   you    come   to   me    sooner?       why   would 

you  make  use  of  any  body  else?  I  take  it 
ill  that  you  should  bring  me  a  recommendation;  pray  let 
there  be  no  more  of  this;  but  when  you  have  occasion  here- 
after, come  to  me  upon  your  own  account."  That  is  the 
glorious  bounty,  when  the  receiver  can  say  to  himself; 
"What  a  blessed  day  has  this  been  to  me!  never  was  any 
thing  done  so  generously,  so  tenderly,  with  so  good  a  grace. 
What  is  it  I  would  not  do  to  serve  this  man!  A  thousand 
times  as  much  another  way  could  not  have  given  me  this 
satisfaction."  In  such  a  case,  let  the  benefit  be  never  so 
considerable,  the  manner  of  conferring  it  is  yet  the  noblest 
part.  Where  there  is  harshness  of  language,  countenance, 
or  behaviour,  a  man  had  better  be  without  it.  A  flat  denial  is 
infinitely  before  a  vexatious  delay:  as  a  quick  death  is  a 
mercy,  compared  with  a  lingering  torment.  But  to  be  put  to 
waitings  and  intercessions,  after  a  promise  is  passed,  is  a  cru- 
elty intolerable.  It  is  troublesome  to  stay  long  for  a  benefit, 
let  it  be  never  so  great;  and  he  that  holds  me  needlessly  in 
pain,  loses  two  precious  things,  time,  and  the  proof  of  friend- 
ship. Nay,  the  very  hint  of  a  man's  want  comes  many  times 
too  late.  "If  I  had  money,"  said  Socrates,  "I  would  buy 
me  a  cloak."  They  that  knew  he  wanted  one  should  have 
prevented  the  very  intimation  of  that  want.  It  is  not  the 
value  of  the  present,  but  the  benevolence  of  the  mind,  that 
we  are  to  consider.  "He  gave  me  but  a  little,  but  it  was  ge- 
nerously and  frankly  done;  it  was  a  little  out  of  a  little:  he 
gave  it  me  without  asking;  he  pressed  it  upon  me;  he  watch- 
ed the  opportunity  of  doing  it,  and  took  it  as  an  obligation 
upon  himself."  On  the  other  side,  many  benefits  are  great  in 
show,  but  little  or  nothing  perhaps  in  effect,  when  they  come 
hard,  slow,  or  at  unawares.  That  which  is  given  with  pride 
and  ostentation,  is  rather  an  ambition  than  a  bounty. 

Some  favours  are  to  be  conferred  in  public,  others  in  pri- 
vate.    In  public  the  rewards  of  great  actions; 
Some  favours         ^g  honours,   charges,   or  whatsoever  else  gives 
tn  pu^  ic,  0  ers         ^       reputation  in  the  world;    but  the  good 
m  private  ^       r  •  1  • 

otlices  we  do  tor  a  man  m  want,  distress,  or 

under  reproach,  these  should   be  known  only  to  those  that 
have  the  benefit  of  them.     Nay,  not  to  them  neither,  if  we 


SENECA  OF  BENEFITS  45 

can  handsomely  conceal  it  from  whence  the  favour  came: 
for  the  secrecy,  in  many  cases,  is  a  main  part  of  the  benefit. 
There  was  a  good  man  that  had  a  friend,  who  was  both  poor 
and  sick,  and  ashamed  to  own  his  condition:  he  privately 
conveyed  a  bag  of  money  under  his  pillow,  that  he  might 
seem  rather  to  find  than  receive  it.  Provided  I  know  that  I 
give  it,  no  matter  for  his  knowing  from  whence  it  comes  that 
receives  it.  Many  a  man  stands  in  need  of  help  that  has  not 
the  face  to  confess  it:  if  the  discovery  may  give  offence,  let 
it  lie  concealed;  he  that  gives  to  be  seen  would  never  relieve  a 
man  in  the  dark.  It  would  be  too  tedious  to  run  through  all  the 
niceties  that  may  occur  upon  this  subject;  but,  in  two  words, 
he  must  be  a  wise,  a  friendly,  and  a  well-bred  man,  that  per- 
fectly acquits  himself  in  the  art  and  duty  of  obliging:  for  all 
his  actions  must  be  squared  according  to  the  measures  of 
civility,  good-nature,  and  discretion. 


CHAP.  VIII 

The  difference  and  value  of  benefits 

We  have  already  spoken  of  benefits  in  general;  the  matter 
and  the  intention,  together  with  the  manner  of  conferring 
them.  It  follows  now,  in  course,  to  say  something  of  the 
value  of  them;  which  is  rated,  either  by  the  good  they  do  us, 
or  by  the  inconvenience  they  save  us,  and  has  no  other  stand- 
ard than  that  of  a  judicious  regard  to  circumstance  and  occa- 
sion. Suppose  I  save  a  man  from  drowning,  the  advantage 
of  life  is  all  one  to  him,  from  what  hand  soever  it  comes,  or 
by  what  means;  but  yet  there  may  be  a  vast  difference  in 
the  obligation.  I  may  do  it  with  hazard,  or  with  security; 
with  trouble,  or  with  ease;  willingly,  or  by  compulsion;  upon 
intercession,  or  without  it:  I  may  have  a  prospect  of  vain  glory 
or  profit:  I  may  do  it  in  kindness  to  another,  or  an  hundred 
by-ends  to  myself;  and  every  point  does  exceedingly  vary  the 
case.  Two  persons  may  part  with  the  same  sum  of  money, 
and  yet  not  the  same  benefit:  the  one  had  it  of  his  own,  and 
it  was  but  a  little  out  of  a  great  deal;  the  other  borrowed  it, 
and  bestowed  upon  me  that  which  he  wanted  for  himself. 
Two  boys  were  sent  out  to  fetch  a  certain  person  to  their  mas- 
ter:   the  one  of  them  hunts  up  and  down,  and  comes  home 


46  SENECA  OF   BENEFITS 

again  weary,  without  finding  him;  the  other  falls  to  play  with 
his  companions  at  the  wheel  of  Fortune,  sees  him  by  chance 
passing  by,  delivers  him  his  errand,  and  brings  him.  He  that 
found  him  by  chance  deserves  to  be  punished;  and  he  that 
sought  for  him,  and  missed  him,  to  be  rewarded  for  his  good 
will. 

In  some  cases  we  value  the  thing,  in  others  the  labour  and 

attendance.  What  can  be  more  precious  than 
We  value  the  good  manners,  good  letters,  life,   and  health? 

thing,  the  la-  j  ^  u      •   •  j    ^    ^ 

hour,  or  attend-  ^"^  ^^^  we  _  pay  our  physicians  and  tutors 
ance  only   for   their   service    in    the    professions.    If 

we  buy  things  cheap,  it  matters  not,  so  long 
as  it  is  a  bargain:  it  is  no  obligation  from  the  seller,  if  no 
body  else  will  give  him  more  for  it.  What  would  not  a  man 
give  to  be  set  ashore  in  a  tempest.?  for  a  house  in  a  wilderness.? 
a  shelter  in  a  storm  ?  a  fire,  or  a  bit  of  meat,  when  a  man  is 
pinched  with  hunger  or  cold?  a  defence  against  thieves,  and  a 
thousand  other  matters  of  moment,  that  cost  but  little?  And 
yet  we  know  that  the  skipper  has  but  his  freight  for  our  pas- 
sage; and  the  carpenters  and  bricklayers  do  their  work  by  the 
day.  Those  are  many  times  the  greatest  obligations  in  truth, 
which,  in  vulgar  opinion  are  the  smallest:  as  comfort  to  the 
sick,  poor  captives;  good  counsel,  keeping  of  people  from 
wickedness,  &c.  Wherefore  we  should  reckon  ourselves  to 
owe  most  for  the  noblest  benefits.  If  the  physician  adds  care 
and  friendship  to  the  duty  of  his  calling,  and  the  tutor  to  the 
common  method  of  his  business;  I  am  to  esteem  of  them  as 
the  nearest  of  my  relations:  for  to  watch  with  me,  to  be 
troubled  for  me,  and  to  put  off  all  other  patients  for  my  sake, 
is  a  particular  kindness:  and  so  it  is  in  my  tutor,  if  he  takes 
more  pains  with  me  than  with  the  rest  of  my  fellows.  It  is 
not  enough,  in  this  case,  to  pay  the  one  his  fees,  and  the  other 
his  salary;  but  I  am  indebted  to  them  over  and  above  for 
their  friendship.  The  meanest  of  mechanics,  if  he  does  his 
work  with  industry  and  care,  it  is  an  usual  thing  to  cast  in 
something  by  way  of  reward  more  than  the  bare  agreement: 
and  shall  we  deal  worse  with  the  preservers  of  our  lives,  and 
the  reformers  of  our  manners  ?  He  that  gives  me  himself,  (if  he 
be  worth  taking)  gives  the  greatest  benefit:  and  this  is  the 
present  which  ^schines,  a  poor  disciple  of  Socrates,  made  to 
his  master,  and  as  a  matter  of  great  consideration:  "Others 
may  have  given  you  much,"  says  he,  "but  I  am  the  only  man 
that  has  left  nothing  to  himself."     "This  gift,"  says  Socrates, 


SENECA  OF  BENEFITS  47 

"you  shall  never  repent  of;  for  I  will  take  care  to  return  it 
better  than  I  found  it."  So  that  a  brave  mind  can  never 
want  matter  for  liberality  in  the  meanest  condition;  for  Na- 
ture has  been  so  kind  to  us,  that  where  we  have  nothing  of 
Fortune's,  we  may  bestow  something  of  our  own. 

It  falls  out  often,  that  a  benefit  is  followed  with  an  injury; 
let  which  will  be  foremost,  it  is  with  the  lat- 
ter as  with  one  writing  upon  another;    it  does     ,   '^^nefi''-  fol- 

I  •  J      ^1        r  11  lowed  by  an 

in  a  great  measure  hide  the  lormer,  and  keep     •  ■ 

it  from  appearing,  but  it  does  not  quite  take 
it  away.  We  may  in  some  cases  divide  them,  and  both  requite 
the  one,  and  revenge  the  other;  or  otherwise  compare  them, 
to  know  whether  I  am  creditor  or  debtor.  You  have  obliged 
me  in  my  servant,  but  wounded  me  in  my  brother;  you 
have  saved  my  son,  but  have  destroyed  my  father;  in  this  in- 
stance, I  will  allow  as  much  as  piety,  and  justice,  and  good- 
nature, will  bear;  but  I  am  not  willing  to  set  an  injury  against 
a  benefit.  I  would  have  some  respect  to  the  time:  the 
obligation  came  first;  and  then,  perhaps,  the  one  was  designed, 
the  other  against  his  will:  under  these  considerations  I  would 
amplify  the  benefit,  and  lessen  the  injury;  and  extinguish  the 
one  with  the  other;  nay,  I  would  pardon  the  injury  even 
zvithout  the  benefit,  but  much  more  after  it.  Not  that  a  man 
can  be  bound  by  one  benefit  to  suffer  all  sorts  of  injuries;  for 
there  are  some  cases  wherein  we  lie  under  no  obligation  for  a 
benefit;  because  a  greater  injury  absolves  it:  as,  for  example, 
a  man  helps  me  out  of  a  law-suit,  and  afterwards  commits  a 
rape  upon  my  daughter;  where  the  following  impiety  cancels 
the  antecedent  obligation.  A  man  lends  me  a  little  money, 
and  then  sets  my  house  on  fire;  the  debtor  is  here  turned 
creditor,  when  the  injury  outweighs  the  benefit.  Nay,  if  a 
man  does  but  so  much  as  repent  the  good  office  done,  and  grow 
sour  and  insolent  upon  it,  and  upbraid  me  with  it;  if  he  did  it 
only  for  his  own  sake,  or  for  any  other  reason  than  for  mine, 
I  am  in  some  degree,  more  or  less,  acquitted  of  the  obligation. 
I  am  not  at  all  beholden  to  him  that  makes  me  the  instrument 
of  his  own  advantage.  He  that  does  me  good  for  his  own  sake, 
I  will  do  him  good  for  mine. 

Suppose  a  man  makes  suit  for  a  place,  and  cannot  obtain  it 
but  upon  the   ransom  of   ten  slaves  out  of  the 
gallies.       If  there   be  ten,   and   no  more,  they    ^^•''^  ^.^/^  °^  ^ 
owe    him    nothing    for   their    redemption;     but    ^°^Jf°"^  ^^' 
they  are  indebted  to  him  for  the  choice,  where 


48  SENECA  OF  BENEFITS 

he  might  have  taken  ten  others  as  well  as  these.  Put  the  case 
again,  that  by  an  act  of  grace  so  many  prisoners  are  to  be 
released;  their  names  to  be  drawn  by  lot,  and  mine  happens 
to  come  out  among  the  rest:  one  part  of  my  obligation  is  to 
him  that  put  me  in  a  capacity  of  freedom,  and  the  other  is  to 
Providence  for  my  being  one  of  that  number.  The  greatest 
benefits  of  all  have  no  witnesses,  but  lie  concealed  in  the  con- 
science. 

There  is  a  great  difference  betwixt  a  common  obligation  and 
a  particular;    he  that  lends  my  country  money. 
Obligations  obliges    me    only    as    a    part    of    the    whole. 

common  and  t>i   ^  j     ^u         •  j     ^u       r 

7  riato    crossed    the    river,    and    the    terry-man 

would  take  no  money  of  him:  he  reflected 
upon  it  as  honour  done  to  himself;  and  told  him,  "That  Plato 
was  in  debt."  But  Plato,  when  he  found  it  to  be  no  more 
than  he  did  for  others,  recalled  his  word,  "For,"  says  he, 
"Plato  will  owe  nothing  in  particular  for  a  benefit  in  com- 
mon;   what  I  owe  with  others,  I  will  pay  with  others." 

Some  will  have  it  that  the  necessity  of  wishing  a  man  well 

is  some  abatement  to  the  obligation  in  the 
Obligations  ^^-        ^£  Y{xm   a   good   office.     But   I    say,   on 

upon  necessity  ,       °  ,      °  .      .        ,  , 

the  contrary,   that   it   is   the   greater;     because 

the  good  will  cannot  be  changed.  It  is  one  thing  to  say,  that 
a  man  could  not  but  do  me  this  or  that  civility,  because  he 
was  forced  to  it;  and  another  thing,  that  he  could  not  quit  the 
good  will  of  doing  it.  In  the  former  case,  I  am  a  debtor  to 
him  that  imposeth  the  force,  in  the  other  to  himself.  The  un- 
changeable good  will  is  an  indispensible  obligation:  and,  to 
say,  that  nature  cannot  go  out  of  her  course,  does  not  dis- 
charge us  of  what  we  owe  to  Providence.  Shall  he  be  said  to 
will,  that  may  change  his  mind  the  next  moment?  and  shall 
we  question  the  will  of  the  Almighty,  whose  nature  admits  no 
change?  Must  the  stars  quit  their  stations,  and  fall  foul  one 
upon  another?  must  the  sun  stand  still  in  the  middle  of  his 
course,  and  heaven  and  earth  drop  into  confusion?  must  a 
devouring  fire  seize  upon  the  universe;  the  harmony  of  the 
creation  be  dissolved;  and  the  whole  frame  of  nature  swal- 
lowed up  in  a  dark  abyss;  and  will  nothing  less  than  this  serve 
to  convince  the  world  of  their  audacious  and  impertinent 
follies?  It  is  not  to  say,  that  these  heavenly  bodies  are  not  made 
for  us;  for  in  part  they  are  so;  and  we  are  the  better  for  their 
virtues  and  motions  whether  we  will  or  not;  though,  un- 
doubtedly, the  principal  cause  is  the  unalterable  law  of  God. 


SENECA  OF  BENEFITS  49 

Providence  is  not  moved  by  any  thing  from  without;  but  the 
Divine  will  is  an  everlasting  law,  an  immutable  decree;  and 
the  impossibility  of  variation  proceeds  from  God's  purpose  of 
preserving;  for  he  never  repents  of  his  first  counsels.  It  is 
not  with  our  heavenly  as  with  our  earthly  father.  God 
thought  of  us"  and  provided  for  us,  before  he  made  us:  (for 
unto  him  all  future  events  are  present.)  Man  was  not  the 
work  of  chance;  his  mind  carries  him  above  the  slight  of 
fortune,  and  naturally  aspires  to  the  contemplation  of  heaven 
and  divine  mysteries.  How  desperate  a  frenzy  is  it  now  to 
undervalue,  nay,  to  contemn,  and  to  disclaim  these  divine 
blessings,  without  which  we  are  utterly  incapable  of  enjoy- 
ing any  other. 


CHAP.   IX 

An  honest  man  cannot  be  outdone  in  courtesy 

It  passes  in  the  world  for  a  generous  and  magnificent  say- 
ing, that  "it  is  a  shame  for  a  man  to  be  outdone  in  courtesy:" 
and  it  is  worth  the  while  to  examine,  both  the  truth  of  it, 
and  the  mistake.  First,  there  can  be  no  shame  in  a  virtuous 
emulation;  and,  secondly,  there  can  be  no  victory  without 
crossing  the  cudgels,  and  yielding  the  cause.  One  man  may 
have  the  advantages  of  strength,  of  means,  of  fortune;  and 
this  will  undoubtedly  operate  upon  the  events  of  good  purpo- 
ses, but  yet  without  any  diminution  to  the  virtue.  The  good 
will  may  be  the  same  in  both,  and  yet  one  may  have  the 
heels  of  the  other;  for  it  is  not  in  a  good  office  as  in  a  course, 
where  he  wins  the  plate  that  comes  first  to  the  post:  and 
even  there  also,  chance  has  many  times  a  great  hand  in  the 
success.  Where  the  contest  is  about  benefits;  and  that  the 
one  has  not  only  a  good  will,  but  matter  to  work  upon,  and  a 
power  to  put  that  good  intent  in  execution;  and  the  other 
has  barely  a  good  will,  without  either  the  means,  or  the  occa- 
sion, of  a  requital;  if  he  does  but  affectionately  wish  it,  and 
endeavour  it,  the  latter  is  no  more  overcome  in  courtesy  than 
he  is  in  courage  that  dies  with  his  sword  in  his  hand,  and  his 
face  to  the  enemy,  and  without  shrinking  maintains  his  sta- 
tion: for  where  fortune  is  ■partial  it  is  enough  that  the  good 
will  is  equal.  There  are  two  errors  in  this  proposition:  first, 
to  imply  that  a  good  man  may  be  overcome;    and  then  to 


so  SENECA  OF  BENEFITS 

imagine  that  any  thing  shameful  can  befal  him.  The  Spartans 
prohibited  all  those  exercises  where  the  victory  was  declared 
by  the  confession  of  the  contendant.  The  300  Fabii  were 
never  said  to  be  conquered,  but  slain;  nor  Regulus  to  be  over- 
come, though  he  was  taken  prisoner  by  the  Carthaginians. 
The  mind  may  stand  firm  under  the  greatest  malice  and  ini- 
quity of  fortune;  and  yet  the  giver  and  receiver  continue  upon 
equal  terms.  As  we  reckon  it  a  drawn  battle,  when  two 
combatants  are  parted,  though  the  one  has  lost  more  blood 
than  the  other.  He  that  knows  how  to  owe  a  courtesy,  and 
heartily  wishes  that  he  could  requite  it,  is  invincible;  so  that 
every  man  may  be  as  grateful  as  he  pleases.  It  is  your  happi- 
ness to  give,  it  is  my  fortune  that  I  can  only  receive.  What 
advantage  now  has  your  chance  over  my  virtue?  But  there 
are  some  men  that  have  philosophised  themselves  almost  out 
of  the  sense  of  human  affections;  as  Diogenes,  that  walked 
naked  and  unconcerned  through  the  middle  of  Alexander's 
treasures,  and  was,  as  well  in  other  men's  opinions  as  in  his 
own,  even  above  Alexander  himself,  who  at  that  time  had  the 
whole  world  at  his  feet:  for  there  was  more  that  the  one 
scorned  to  take  than  that  the  other  had  in  his  power  to  give: 
and  it  is  a  greater  generosity  for  a  beggar  to  refuse  money 
than  for  a  prince  to  bestow  it.  This  is  a  remarkable  instance 
of  an  immoveable  mind,  and  there  is  hardly  any  contending 
with  it;  but  a  man  is  never  the  less  valiant  for  being  worsted 
by  an  invulnerable  enemy;  nor  the  fire  one  jot  the  weaker 
for  not  consuming  an  incombustible  body;  nor  a  sword  ever 
a  whit  the  worse  for  not  cleaving  a  rock  that  is  impenetrable; 
neither  is  a  grateful  mind  overcome  for  want  of  an  answera- 
ble fortune.  No  matter  for  the  inequality  of  the  things  given 
and  received,  so  long,  as  in  point  of  good  affection,  the  two 
parties  stand  upon  the  same  level.  It  is  no  shame  not  to  over- 
take a  man,  if  we  follow  him  as  fast  as  we  can.  That  tumour 
of  a  man,  the  vain-glorious  Alexander,  was  used  to  make  his 
boast,  that  never  any  man  went  beyond  him  in  benefits;  and 
yet  he  lived  to  see  a  poor  fellow  in  a  tub,  to  whom  there  was 
nothing  that  he  could  give,  and  from  whom  there  was  nothing 
that  he  could  take  away. 

Nor  is  it  always  necessary  for  a  poor  man  to  fly  to  the  sanc- 
tuary   of   an    invincible    mind    to    quit    scores 
A  wise  friend  is     ^-^j^     ^]^g     bounties     of    a     plentiful     fortune; 

Dre^ent"  ^"^   ^*   ^^^^   often    fall   out,   that   the   returns 

which    he    cannot    make    in    kind    are    more 


SENECA  OF   BENEFITS  51 

than  supplied  in  dignity  and  value.  Archelaus,  a  king  of 
Macedon,  invited  Socrates  to  his  palace;  but  he  excused 
himself,  as  unwilling  to  receive  greater  benefits  than  he  was 
able  to  requite.  This  perhaps  was  not  pride  in  Socrates,  but 
craft;  for  he  was  afraid  of  being  forced  to  accept  of  some- 
thing which  might  possibly  have  been  unworthy  of  him; 
beside,  that  he  was  a  man  of  liberty,  and  loth  to  make  him- 
self a  voluntary  slave.  The  truth  of  it  is,  that  Archelaus  had 
more  need  of  Socrates  than  Socrates  of  Archelaus;  for  he 
wanted  a  man  to  teach  him  the  art  of  life  and  death,  and  the 
skill  of  government;  and  to  read  the  book  of  Nature  to  him, 
and  show  him  the  light  at  noon  day:  he  wanted  a  man  that, 
when  the  sun  was  in  an  eclipse,  and  he  had  locked  himself  up 
in  all  the  horror  and  despair  imaginable;  he  wanted  a  man, 
I  say,  to  deliver  him  from  his  apprehensions,  and  to  expound 
the  prodigy  to  him,  by  telling  him,  that  there  was  no  more  in 
it  than  only  that  the  moon  was  got  betwixt  the  sun  and  the 
earth,  and  all  would  be  well  again  presently.  Let  the  world 
judge  now,  whether  Archelaus'  bounty,  or  Socrates'  philo- 
sophy, would  have  been  the  greater  present:  he  does  not 
understand  the  value  of  wisdom  and  friendship  that  does  not 
know  a  wise  friend  to  be  the  noblest  of  presents.  A  rarity 
scarce  to  be  found,  not  only  in  a  family,  but  in  an  age;  and 
no  where  more  wanted  than  where  there  seems  to  be  the 
greatest  store.  The  greater  a  man  is,  the  more  need  he  has 
of  him;  and  the  more  difficulty  there  is  both  of  finding  and 
of  knowing  him.  Nor  is  it  to  be  said  that  "I  cannot  requite 
such  a  benefactor  because  I  am  poor,  and  have  it  not;"  I  can 
give  good  counsel;  a  conversation  wherein  he  may  take  both 
delight  and  profit;  freedom  of  discourse,  without  flattery; 
kind  attention,  where  he  deliberates;  and  faith  inviolable 
where  he  trusts;  I  may  bring  him  to  a  love  and  knowledge 
of  truth;  deliver  him  from  the  errors  of  his  credulity,  and 
teach  him  to  distinguish  betwixt  friends  and  parasites. 


CHAP.   X 

The  question  discussed,  Whether  or  not  a  man  may 
give  or  return  a  benefit  to  himself? 

There  are  many  cases,  wherein  a  man  speaks  of  himself  as 
of  another.     As,  for  example,  "I  may  thank  myself  for  this;   I 


52  SENECA  OF  BENEFITS 

am  angry  at  myself;  I  hate  myself  for  that."  And  this  way  of 
speaking  has  raised  a  dispute  among  the  Stoics,  "whether  or 
not  a  man  may  give  or  return  a  benefit  to  himself?"  For,  say 
they,  if  I  may  hurt  myself,  I  may  oblige  myself;  and  that 
which  were  a  benefit  to  another  body,  why  is  it  not  so  to 
myself?  And  why  am  not  I  as  criminal  in  being  ungrateful 
to  myself  as  if  I  were  so  to  another  body?  And  the  case  is 
the  same  in  flattery  and  several  other  vices;  as,  on  the  other 
side,  it  is  a  point  of  great  reputation  for  a  man  to  command 
himself.  Plato  thanked  Socrates  for  what  he  had  learned  of 
him;  and  why  might  not  Socrates  as  well  thank  Plato  for 
that  which  he  had  taught  him?  "That  which  you  want," 
says  Plato,  "borrow  it  of  yourself."  And  why  may  not  I  as 
well  give  to  myself  as  lend?  If  I  may  be  angry  with  myself, 
I  may  thank  myself;  and  if  I  chide  myself,  I  may  as  well 
commend  myself,  and  do  myself  good  as  well  as  hurt;  there 
is  the  same  reason  of  contraries:  it  is  a  common  thing  to 
say,  "Such  a  man  hath  done  himself  an  injury."  If  an  in- 
jury, why  not  a  benefit?  But  I  say,  that  no  man  can  be  a 
debtor  to  himself;  for  the  benefit  must  naturally  precede  the 
acknowledgment;  and  a  debtor  can  no  more  be  without  a 
creditor  than  a  husband  without  a  wife.  Some  body  must 
give  that  some  body  may  receive;  and  it  is  neither  giving 
nor  receiving,  the  passing  of  a  thing  from  one  hand  to  the 
other.  What  if  a  man  should  be  ungrateful  in  the  case? 
there  is  nothing  lost;  for  he  that  gives  it  has  it:  and  he  that 
gives  and  he  that  receives  are  one  and  the  same  person. 
Now,  properly  speaking,  no  man  can  be  said  to  bestow  any 
thing  upon  himself,  for  he  obeys  his  nature,  that  prompts 
every  man  to  do  himself  all  the  good  he  can.  Shall  I  call  him 
liberal  that  gives  to  himself:  or  good  natured,  that  pardons 
himself;  or  pitiful,  that  is  affected  with  his  own  misfortunes? 
That  which  were  bounty,  clemency,  compassion,  to  another, 
to  myself  is  nature.  A  benefit  is  a  voluntary  thing;  but 
to  do  good  to  myself  is  a  thing  necessary.  Was  ever  any 
man  commended  for  getting  out  of  a  ditch,  or  for  helping 
himself  against  thieves?  Or  what  if  I  should  allow,  that 
a  man  might  confer  a  benefit  upon  himself;  yet  he  cannot 
owe  it,  for  he  returns  it  in  the  same  instant  that  he  re- 
ceives it.  No  man  gives,  owes,  or  makes  a  return,  but  to 
another.  How  can  one  man  do  that  to  which  two  parties  are 
requisite  in  so  many  respects?     Giving  and  receiving  must  go 


SENECA  OF  BENEFITS  53 

backward  and  forward  betwixt  two  persons.  If  a  man  give  to 
himself,  he  may  sell  to  himself;  but  to  sell  is  to  alienate  a 
thing,  and  to  translate  the  right  of  it  to  another;  now,  to 
make  a  man  both  the  giver  and  the  receiver  is  to  unite  two 
contraries.  That  is  a  benefit,  which,  when  it  is  given,  may 
possibly  not  be  requited;  but  he  that  gives  to  himself,  must 
necessarily  receive  what  he  gives;  beside,  that  all  benefits  are 
given  for  the  receiver's  sake,  but  that  which  a  man  does 
for  himself  is  for  the  sake  of  the  giver. 

This  is  one  of  those  subtleties,  which,  though  hardly  worth 
a  man's  while,  yet  it  is  not  labour  absolutely  lost  neither. 
There  is  more  of  trick  and  artifice  in  it  than  solidity;  and  yet 
there  is  matter  of  diversion  too;  enough  perhaps  to  pass  away 
a  winter's  evening,  and  keep  a  man  waking  that  is  heavy- 
headed. 


CHAP.   XI 

How  far  one  man  may  be  obliged  for  a  benefit  done 
to  another 

The  question  now  before  us  requires  distinction  and  caution. 
For  though  it  be  both  natural  and  generous  to  wish  well  to  my 
friend's  friend,  yet  a  second-hand  benefit  does  not  bind  me  any 
further  than  to  a  second-hand  gratitude:  so  that  I  may  receive 
great  satisfaction  and  advantage  from  a  good  office  done  to  my 
friend,  and  yet  lie  under  no  obligation  myself;  or,  if  any  man 
thinks  otherwise,  I  must  ask  him,  in  the  first  place.  Where  it 
begins?  and.  How  it  extends?  that  it  may  not  be  boundless. 
Suppose  a  man  obliges  the  son,  does  that  obligation  work  upon 
the  father?  and  why  not  upon  the  uncle  too?  the  brother? 
the  wife?  the  sister?  the  mother?  nay,  upon  all  that  have  any 
kindness  for  him?  and  upon  all  the  lovers  of  his  friends?  and 
upon  all  that  love  them  too?  and  so  in  infinitum.  In  this  case 
we  must  have  recourse,  as  is  said  heretofore,  to  the  intention  of 
the  benefactor;  and  fix  the  obligation  upon  him  unto  whom 
the  kindness  was  directed.  If  a  man  manures  my  ground, 
keeps  my  house  from  burning  or  falling,  it  is  a  benefit  to  me, 
for  I  am  the  better  for  it,  and  my  house  and  land  are  insensible. 
But  if  he  save  the  life  of  my  son,  the  benefit  is  to  my  son;  it  is 
a  joy  and  a  comfort  to  me,  but  no  obligation.     I  am  as  much 


54  SENECA  OF  BENEFITS 

concerned  as  I  ought  to  be  in  the  health,  the  felicity,  and  the 
welfare  of  my  son,  as  happy  in  the  enjoyment  of  him;  and 
I  should  be  as  unhappy  as  is  possible  in  his  loss;  but  it  does  not 
follow  that  I  must  of  necessity  lie  under  an  obligation  for  being 
either  happier,  or  less  miserable,  by  another  body's  means. 
There  are  some  benefits,  which  although  conferred  upon  one 
man,  may  yet  work  upon  others;  as  a  sum  of  money  may  be 
given  to  a  poor  man  for  his  own  sake,  which  in  the  consequence 
proves  the  relief  of  his  whole  family;  but  still  the  immediate 
receiver  is  the  debtor  for  it;  for  the  question  is  not,  to  whom 
it  comes  afterward  to  be  transferred,  but  who  is  the  principal? 
and  upon  whom  it  was  first  bestowed  ?  My  son's  life  is  as  dear 
to  me  as  my  own;  and  in  saving  him  you  preserve  me  too: 
in  this  case  I  will  acknowledge  myself  obliged  to  you,  that  is 
to  say,  in  my  son's  name;  for  in  my  own,  and  in  strictness,  I 
am  not;  but  I  am  content  to  make  myself  a  voluntary  debtor. 
What  if  he  had  borrowed  money?  my  paying  of  it  does  not 
at  all  make  it  my  debt.  It  would  put  me  to  the  blush  perhaps 
to  have  him  taken  in  bed  with  another  man's  wife;  but  that 
does  not  make  me  an  adulterer.  It  is  a  wonderful  delight  and 
satisfaction  that  I  receive  in  his  safety;  but  still  this  good  is 
not  a  benefit.  A  man  may  be  the  better  for  an  animal,  a  plant, 
a  stone;  but  there  must  be  a  will,  an  intention,  to  make  it  an 
obligation.  You  save  the  son  without  so  much  as  knowing  the 
father,  nay,  without  so  much  as  thinking  of  him;  and,  perhaps 
you  would  have  done  the  same  thing  even  if  you  had  hated 
him.  But  without  any  further  alteration  of  dialogue,  the  con- 
clusion is  this;  if  you  meant  him  the  kindness,  he  is  answerable 
for  it,  and  I  may  enjoy  the  fruit  of  it  without  being  obliged  by 
it:  but  if  it  was  done  for  my  sake,  then  I  am  accountable;  or 
howsoever,  upon  any  occasion,  I  am  ready  to  do  you  all  the 
kind  offices  imaginable;  not  as  the  return  of  a  benefit,  but  as 
the  earnest  of  a  friendship;  which  you  are  not  to  challenge 
neither,  but  to  entertain  as  an  act  of  honour  and  of  justice, 
rather  than  of  gratitude.  If  a  man  find  the  body  of  my  dead 
father  in  a  desert,  and  give  it  a  burial;  if  he  did  it  as  to  my 
father,  I  am  beholden  to  him:  but  if  the  body  was  unknown 
to  him,  and  that  he  would  have  done  the  same  thing  for  any 
other  body,  I  am  no  farther  concerned  in  it  than  as  a  piece  of 
public  humanity. 


SENECA  OF  BENEFITS  55 

There    are,    moreover,    some    cases    wherein    an    unworthy 
person  may  be  obhged  for  the  sake  of  others: 
and  the  sottish   extract  of  an  ancient  nobility    An  unworthy 
may  be  preferred  before  a  better  man  that  is    P^^rson  may  be 
but  of  yesterday's  standing.     And  it  is  but  rea-    "^^ifj^off 
sonable  to  pay  a  reverence  even  to  the  memory    ^/^^^  ^^^  ^^^^ 
of  eminent  virtues.     He  that  is  not  illustrious    worthy 
in  himself,  may  yet   be  reputed  so  in  the  right 
of  his  ancestors:    and  there  is  a  gratitude  to  be  entailed  upon 
the   offspring   of   famous   progenitors.      Was    it    not    for    the 
father's  sake  that  Cicero  the  son  was  made  consul?    and  was 
it  not  the  eminence  of  one  Pompey  that  raised  and  dignified 
the  rest  of  his  family.?     How  came  Caligula  to  be  emperor  of 
the  world?   a  man  so  cruel,  that  he  spilt  blood  as  greedily  as  if 
he  were  to  drink  it;   the  empire  was  not  given  to  himself,  but 
to  his  father  Germanicus.     A  brave  man  deserved  that  for  him, 
which  he  could   never  have  challenged   upon  his  own  merit. 
What   was    it    that    preferred    Fabius    Persicus,    (whose    very 
mouth  was  the  uncleanest  part  about  him,)  what  was  it  but 
the  300  of  that  family  that  so  generously  opposed  the  enemy 
for  the  safety  of  the  commonwealth  ? 

Nay,  Providence  itself  is  gracious  to  the  wicked  posterity 

of     an     honourable     race.     The     counsels     of 

heaven    are    guided    by    wisdom,    mercy,    and    Providence  itself 

justice.       Some     men     are     made     kings     for    T^^g-ranous  to  the 

their     proper     virtues,     without     any     respect    '^l'^  ^  ,       ^"£*! 
.    \      ^  '  1     •  0}  an  honourable 

to    their     predecessors:    others   ror    their     an-    ^ace 

cestors'     sakes,    whose    virtues,     though     neg- 
lected in  their  lives,  come  to  be  afterward  rewarded  in  their 
issues.     And  it  is  but  equity,  that  our  gratitude  should  extend 
as  far  as  the  influence  of  their  heroical  actions  and  examples. 


CHAP.  XII 

The  benefactor  must  have  no  by-ends 

We  come  now  to  the  main  point  of  the  matter  in  question: 
that  is  to  say,  whether  or  not  it  be  a  thing  desirable  in  itself, 
the  giving  and  receiving  of  benefits?  There  is  a  sect  of  phi- 
losophers that  accounts  nothing  valuable  but  what  is  profitable, 
and  so  makes  all  virtue  mercenary;    an  unmanly  mistake  to 


56  SENECA  OF  BENEFITS 

imagine,  that  the  hope  of  gain,  or  fear  of  loss,  should  make 
a  man  either  the  more  or  the  less  honest.  As  who  should  say, 
"What  will  I  get  by  it,  and  I  will  be  an  honest  man?" 
Whereas,  on  the  contrary,  honesty  is  a  thing  in  itself  to  be  pur- 
chased at  any  rate.  It  is  not  for  a  body  to  say,  "It  will  be  a 
charge,  a  hazard,  I  shall  give  offence,"  &c.  My  business  is  to 
do  what  I  ought  to  do:  all  other  considerations  are  foreign  to 
the  office.  Whensoever  my  duty  calls  me,  it  is  my  part  to 
attend,  without  scrupulizing  upon  forms  or  difficulties.  Shall 
I  see  an  honest  man  oppressed  at  the  bar,  and  not  assist  him, 
for  fear  of  a  court  faction.?  or  not  second  him  upon  the  high- 
way against  thieves,  for  fear  of  a  broken  head?  and  choose 
rather  to  sit  still,  the  quiet  spectator  of  fraud  and  violence? 
Why  will  men  be  just,  temperate,  generous,  brave,  but  because 
it  carries  along  with  it  fame  and  a  good  conscience?  and  for  the 
same  reason,  and  no  other,  (to  apply  it  to  the  subject  in 
hand,)  let  a  man  also  be  bountiful.  The  school  of  Epicurus, 
I  am  sure,  will  never  swallow  this  doctrine:  (that  effeminate 
tribe  of  lazy  and  voluptuous  philosophers;)  they  will  tell 
you,  that  virtue  is  but  the  servant  and  vassal  of  pleasure. 
"No,"  says  Epicurus,  "I  am  not  for  pleasure  neither  without 
virtue."  But,  why  then  for  pleasure,  say  I,  before  virtue?  Not 
that  the  stress  of  the  controversy  lies  upon  the  order  only;  for 
the  power  of  it,  as  well  as  the  dignity,  is  now  under  debate. 
It  is  the  office  of  virtue  to  superintend,  to  lead,  and  to  govern; 
but  the  parts  you  have  assigned  it,  are  to  submit,  to  follow, 
and  to  be  under  command.  But  this,  you  will  say,  is  nothing 
to  the  purpose,  so  long  as  both  sides  are  agreed,  that  there  can 
be  no  happiness  without  virtue:  "Take  away  that,"  says 
Epicurus,  "  and  I  am  as  little  a  friend  to  pleasure  as  you." 
The  pinch  in  short,  is  this,  whether  virtue  itself  be  the  su- 
preme good  or  the  only  cause  of  it?  It  is  not  the  inverting  of 
the  order  that  will  clear  this  point;  (though  it  is  a  very  prepos- 
terous error,  to  set  that  first  which  would  be  last.)  It  does  not 
half  so  much  offend  me,  ranging  of  pleasure  before  virtue,  as 
the  very  comparing  of  them;  and  the  bringing  of  the  two  op- 
posites,  and  professed  enemies,  into  any  sort  of  competi- 
tion. 

The  drift  of  this  discourse  is,  to  support  the  cause  of  bene- 
fits; and  to  prove,  that  it  is  a  mean  and  dishonourable  thing  to 
give  for  any  other  end  than  for  giving's  sake. 
.  f  °r  ^  ^°^  He  that  gives  for  gain,  profit,  or  any  by-end, 

gimng  s  sake  ,  °  •  r  l  r       •      r  ii 

destroys  the  very  mtent  or  bounty;    tor  it  rails 


SENECA  OF  BENEFITS  57 

only  upon  those  that  do  not  want,  and  perverts  the  charitable 
inclinations  of  princes  and  of  great  men,  who  cannot  reasona- 
bly propound  to  themselves  any  such  end.  What  does  the 
sun  get  by  travelling  about  the  universe;  by  visiting  and  com- 
forting all  the  quarters  of  the  earth  ?  Is  the  whole  creation  made 
and  ordered  for  the  good  of  mankind,  and  every  particular  man 
only  for  the  good  of  himself?  There  passes  not  an  hour  of  our 
lives,  wherein  we  do  not  enjoy  the  blessings  of  Providence 
without  measure,  and  without  intermission.  And  what  design 
can  the  Almighty  have  upon  us,  who  is  in  himself  full,  safe, 
and  inviolable.''  If  he  should  give  only  for  his  own  sake,  what 
would  become  of  poor  mortals,  that  have  nothing  to  return 
him  at  best  but  dutiful  acknowledgments .?  It  is  putting  out  of  a 
benefit  to  interest,  only  to  bestow  where  we  may  place  it  to 
advantage. 

Let  us  be  liberal  then,  after  the  example  of  our  great  Creator, 
and   give  to  others  with   the   same  considera- 
tion  that   he   gives   to   us.     Epicurus's   answer    ^^•'^  Epicureans 
will  be  to  this,  that  God  gives  no  benefits  at    ^""^  ^,f  T"- 

,,  I  •      1       1  1  11  1      dence,  the  btoics 

all,   but  turns  his   back  upon  the  world;    and    ^^^^^^  i^ 

without  any  concern  for  us,  leaves  Nature 
to  take  her  course:  and  whether  he  does  any  thing  himself,  or 
nothing,  he  takes  no  notice,  however,  either  of  the  good  or  of 
the  ill,  that  is  done  here  below.  If  there  were  not  an  ordering 
and  an  over-ruling  Providence,  how  comes  it  (say  I,  on  the 
other  side)  that  the  universality  of  mankind  should  ever  have 
so  unanimously  agreed  in  the  madness  of  worshipping  a  power 
that  can  neither  hear  nor  help  us?  Some  blessings  are  freely 
given  us;  others  upon  our  prayers  are  granted  us;  and  every 
day  brings  forth  instances  of  great  and  of  seasonable  mercies. 
There  never  was  yet  any  man  so  insensible  as  not  to  feel,  see, 
and  understand,  a  Deity  in  the  ordinary  methods  of  nature, 
though  many  have  been  so  obstinately  ungrateful  as  not  to 
confess  it;  nor  is  any  man  so  wretched  as  not  to  be  a  partaker 
in  that  divine  bounty.  Some  benefits,  it  is  true,  may  appear 
to  be  unequally  divided:  but  it  is  no  small  matter  yet  that  we 
possess  in  common;  and  which  nature  has  bestowed  upon  us 
in  her  very  self.  If  God  be  not  bountiful,  whence  is  it  that  we 
have  all  that  we  pretend  to?  That  which  we  give,  and  that 
which  we  deny,  that  which  we  lay  up,  and  that  which  we 
squander  away?  Those  innumerable  delights  for  the  entertain- 
ment of  our  eyes,  our  ears,  and  our  understandings?  nay,  that 
copious  matter  even  for  luxury  itself?     For  care  is  taken,  not 


58  SENECA  OF  BENEFITS 

only  for  our  necessities,  but  also  for  our  pleasures,  and  for  the 
gratifying  of  all  our  senses  and  appetites.  So  many  pleasant 
groves;  fruitful  and  salutary  plants;  so  many  fair  rivers  that 
serve  us,  both  for  recreation,  plenty,  and  commerce:  vicissi- 
tudes of  seasons;  varieties  of  food,  by  nature  made  ready  to 
our  hands,  and  the  whole  creation  itself  subjected  to  mankind 
for  health,  medicine,  and  dominion.  We  can  be  thankful  to  a 
friend  for  a  few  acres,  or  a  little  money:  and  yet  for  the  free- 
dom and  command  of  the  whole  earth,  and  for  the  great  bene- 
fits of  our  being,  as  life,  health,  and  reason,  we  look  upon  our- 
selves as  under  no  obligation.  If  a  man  bestows  upon  us  a 
house  that  is  delicately  beautified  with  paintings,  statues,  gild- 
ings, and  marble,  we  make  a  mighty  business  of  it,  and  yet  it 
lies  at  the  mercy  of  a  puff  of  wind,  the  snuff  of  a  candle,  and  a 
hundred  other  accidents,  to  lay  it  in  the  dust.  And  is  it  no- 
thing now  to  sleep  under  the  canopy  of  heaven,  where  we  have 
the  globe  of  the  earth  for  our  place  of  repose,  and  the  glories  of 
the  heavens  for  our  spectacle?  How  comes  it  that  we  should 
so  much  value  what  we  have,  and  yet  at  the  same  time  be  so 
unthankful  for  it?  Whence  is  it  that  we  have  our  breath,  the 
comforts  of  light  and  of  heat,  the  very  blood  that  runs  in  our 
veins?  the  cattle  that  feed  us,  and  the  fruits  of  the  earth  that 
feed  them?  Whence  have  we  the  growth  of  our  bodies,  the 
succession  of  our  ages,  and  the  faculties  of  our  minds?  so 
many  veins  of  metals,  quarries  of  marble,  &c.  The  seed  of 
every  thing  is  in  itself,  and  it  is  the  blessing  of  God  that  raises 
it  out  of  the  dark  into  act  and  motion.  To  say  nothing  of  the 
charming  varieties  of  music,  beautiful  objects,  delicious  pro- 
visions for  the  palate,  exquisite  perfumes,  which  are  cast  in, 
over  and  above,  to  the  common  necessities  of  our  being. 

All  this,  says  Epicurus,  we  are  to  ascribe  to  Nature.     And 

why  not  to  God,  I  beseech  ye?  as  if  they 
God  and  Nature  y^^xt  not  both  of  them  one  and  the  same 
are  one  and  the  i  •  •       ^i  u    i  j     • 

power,    workmg    m    the   whole,    and    m    every 

part  of  it.  Or,  if  you  call  him  the  Almighty 
Jupiter;  the  thunderer;  the  Creator  and  Preserver  of  us  all; 
it  comes  to  the  same  issue;  some  will  express  him  under  the 
notion  of  Fate;  which  is  only  a  connexion  of  causes,  and 
himself  the  uppermost  and  original,  upon  which  all  the  rest 
depend.  The  Stoics  represent  the  several  functions  of  the 
Almighty  Power  under  several  appellations.  When  they  speak 
of  him  as  the  father  and  the  fountain  of  all  beings,  they  call 
him  Bacchus:    and  under  the  name  of  Hercules,  they  denote 


SENECA  OF  BENEFITS  59 

him  to  be  indefatigable  and  invincible;  and,  in  the  contempla- 
tion of  him  in  the  reason,  order,  proportion,  and  wisdom  of  his 
proceedings,  they  call  him  Mercury;  so  that  which  way  so&ver 
they  look,  and  under  what  name  soever  they  couch  their  mean- 
ing, they  never  fail  of  finding  him;  for  he  is  every  where,  and 
fills  his  own  work.  If  a  man  should  borrow  money  of  Seneca, 
and  say  that  he  owes  it  to  Annaeus  or  Lucius,  he  may  change 
the  name  but  not  his  creditor;  for  let  him  take  which  of 
the  three  names  he  pleases,  he  is  still  a  debtor  to  the  same 
person.  As  justice,  integrity,  prudence,  frugality,  fortitude, 
are  all  of  them  goods  of  one  and  the  same  mind,  so  that  which 
soever  of  them  pleases  us,  we  cannot  distinctly  say  that  it  is  this 
or  that,  but  the  mind. 

But,  not  to  carry  this  digression  too  far;    that  which  God 
himself  does,   we   are   sure   is  well   done;    and 

we   are   no   less   sure,   that   for  whatsoever   he     ,      Dtvme 

,  .  ,  •  bounty  expects 

gives,  he  neither  wants,  expects,  nor  receives,    ^^  returns 

any  thing,  in  return;  so  that  the  end  of  a 
benefit  ought  to  be  the  advantage  of  the  receiver;  and  that 
must  be  our  scope  without  any  by-regard  to  ourselves.  It  is 
objected  to  us,  the  singular  caution  we  prescribe  in  the  choice 
of  the  person:  for  it  were  a  madness,  we  say,  for  a  husband- 
man to  sow  the  sand:  which,  if  true,  say  they,  you  have  an 
eye  upon  profit,  as  well  in  giving  as  in  ploughing  and  sowing. 
And  then  they  say  again,  that  if  the  conferring  of  a  benefit 
were  desirable  in  itself,  it  would  have  no  dependence  upon 
the  choice  of  a  man;  for  let  us  give  it  when,  how,  or  where- 
soever we  please,  it  would  be  still  a  benefit.  This  does  not  at 
all  affect  our  assertion;  for  the  person,  the  matter,  the  manner, 
and  the  time,  are  circumstances  absolutely  necessary  to  the 
reason  of  the  action:  there  must  be  a  right  judgment  in  all 
respects  to  make  it  a  benefit.  It  is  my  duty  to  be  true  to  a 
trust,  and  yet  there  may  be  a  time  or  a  place,  wherein  I  would 
make  little  difference  betwixt  the  renouncing  of  it  and  the  deli- 
vering of  it  up;  and  the  same  rule  holds  in  benefits;  I  will  neither 
render  the  one,  nor  bestow  the  other,  to  the  damage  of  the  re- 
ceiver. A  wicked  man  will  run  all  risks  to  do  an  injury,  and  to 
compass  his  revenge;  and  shall  not  an  honest  man  venture  as 
far  to  do  a  good  office  t  All  benefits  must  be  gratuitous }  A  mer- 
chant sells  me  the  corn  that  keeps  me  and  my  family  from  starv- 
ing; but  he  sold  it  for  his  interest,  as  well  as  I  bought  it  for  mine; 
and  so  I  owe  him  nothing  for  it.  He  that  gives  for  profit, 
gives  to  himself;    as  a  physician  or  a  lawyer,  gives  counsel 


6o  SENECA  OF  BENEFITS 

for  a  fee,  and  only  makes  use  of  me  for  his  own  ends;  as  a 
grazier  fats  his  cattle  to  bring  them  to  a  better  market.  This 
is  more  properly  the  driving  of  a  trade  than  the  cultivating  of 
a  generous  commerce.  This  for  that,  is  rather  a  truck  than  a 
benefit;  and  he  deserves  to  be  cozened  that  gives  any  thing 
in  hope  of  a  return.  And  in  truth,  what  end  should  a  man 
honourably  propound.?  not  profit;  sure  that  is  vulgar  and 
mechanic;  and  he  that  does  not  contemn  it  can  never  be  grate- 
ful. And  then  for  glory,  it  is  a  mighty  matter  indeed  for  a 
man  to  boast  of  doing  his  duty.  We  are  to  give,  if  it  were  only 
to  avoid  not  giving;  if  any  thing  comes  of  it,  it  is  clear  gain; 
and,  at  worst,  there  is  nothing  lost;  beside,  that  one  benefit 
well  placed  makes  amends  for  a  thousand  miscarriages.  It  is 
not  that  I  would  exclude  the  benefactor  neither  for  being 
himself  the  better  for  a  good  office  he  does  for  another. 
Some  there  are  that  do  us  good  only  for  their  own  sakes; 
others  for  ours;  and  some  again  for  both.  He  that  does  it 
for  me  in  common  with  himself,  if  he  had  a  prospect  upon  both 
in  the  doing  it,  I  am  obliged  to  him  for  it;  and  glad  with  all 
my  heart  that  he  had  a  share  in  it.  Nay,  I  were  ungrateful 
and  unjust  if  I  should  not  rejoice,  that  what  was  beneficial  to 
me  might  be  so  likewise  to  himself. 

To  pass  now  to  the  matter  of  gratitude  and  ingratitude. 

There  never  was   any  man   yet   so  wicked   as 

All  men  detest        j^q^    ^q    approve    of   the    one,    and  detest    the 

mgra  i  u  e,  other;      as  the  two  things  in  the  whole  world, 

ClTiCl  love  tuC  -^  o  7 

contrary  ^^  ^^le  to  be  the  most  abominated,  the  other 

the  most  esteemed.  The  very  story  of  an 
ungrateful  action  puts  us  out  of  all  patience,  and  gives  us  a 
lothing  for  the  author  of  it.  "That  inhuman  villain,"  we 
cry,  "to  do  so  horrid  a  thing:"  not,  "that  inconsiderate  fool 
for  omitting  so  profitable  a  virtue;"  which  plainly  shows  the 
sense  we  naturally  have,  both  of  the  one  and  of  the  other,  and 
that  we  are  led  to  it  by  a  common  impulse  of  reason  and  of 
conscience.  Epicurus  fancies  God  to  be  without  power,  and 
without  arms;  above  fear  himself,  and  as  little  to  be  feared. 
He  places  him  betwixt  the  orbs,  solitary  and  idle,  out  of  the 
reach  of  mortals,  and  neither  hearing  our  prayers  nor  mind- 
ing our  concerns;  and  allows  him  only  such  a  veneration  and 
respect  as  we  pay  to  our  parents.  If  a  man  should  ask  him 
now,  why  any  reverence  at  all,  if  we  have  no  obligation  to 
him?  or  rather,  why  that  greater  reverence  to  his  fortuitous 
atoms?    his  answer  would  be,  that  it  was  for  their  majesty 


SENECA  OF  BENEFITS  6i 

and  their  admirable  nature,  and  not  out  of  any  hope  or  ex- 
pectation from  them.  So  that  by  his  proper  confession,  a 
thing  may  be  desirable  for  its  own  worth.  But,  says  he,  grati- 
tude is  a  virtue  that  has  commonly  profit  annexed  to  it.  And 
where  is  the  virtue,  say  I,  that  has  not?  but  still  the  virtue  is 
to  be  valued  for  itself,  and  not  for  the  profit  that  attends  it. 
There  is  no  question,  but  gratitude  for  benefits  received  is  the 
ready  way  to  procure  more;  and  in  requiting  one  friend  we 
encourage  many:  but  these  accessions  fall  in  by  the  by;  and 
if  I  were  sure  that  the  doing  of  good  offices  would  be  my  ruin, 
I  would  yet  pursue  them.  He  that  visits  the  sick,  in  hope  of 
a  legacy,  let  him  be  never  so  friendly  in  all  other  cases,  I  look 
upon  him  in  this  to  be  no  better  than  a  raven,  that  watches  a 
weak  sheep  only  to  peck  out  the  eyes  of  it.  We  never  give 
with  so  much  judgment  or  care,  as  when  we  consider  the 
honesty  of  the  action,  without  any  regard  to  the  profit  of  it; 
for  our  understandings  are  corrupted  by  fear,  hope,  and  plea- 
sure. 


CHAP.   XIII 

There  are  many  cases  wherein  a  man  may  he  minded 
oj  a  benefit,  hut  it  is  very  rarely  to  be  challenged,  and 
never  to  he  upbraided 

If  the  world  were  wise,  and  as  honest  as  it  should  be,  there 
would  be  no  need  of  caution  or  precept  how  to  behave  our- 
selves in  our  several  stations  and  duties;  for  both  the  giver 
and  the  receiver  would  do  what  they  ought  to  do  of  their  own 
accord:  the  one  would  be  bountiful,  and  the  other  grateful, 
and  the  only  way  of  minding  a  man  of  one  good  turn  would  be 
the  following  of  it  with  another.  But  as  the  case  stands,  we 
must  take  other  measures,  and  consult  the  best  we  can,  the 
common  ease  and  relief  of  mankind. 

As  there  are  several  sorts  of  ungrateful  men,  so  there  must 
be  several  ways  of  dealing  with   them,   either 
by    artifice,  counsel,    admonition,    or    reproof,      ^^f^^  ^°^.  ^ , 
according  to  the  humour  of  the   person,  and 
the  degree  of  the  offence :    provided  always,  that  as  well  in 
the  reminding  a  man  of  a  benefit,  as  in  the  bestowing  of  it,  the 
good  of  the  receiver  be  the  principal  thing  intended.     There 
is  a  curable  ingratitude,  and  an  incurable;   there  is  a  slothful. 


62  SENECA  OF  BENEFITS 

a  neglectful,  a  proud,  a  dissembling,  a  disclaiming,  a  heedless, 
a  forgetful,  and  a  malicious  ingratitude;  and  the  application 
must  be  suited  to  the  matter  we  have  to  work  upon.  A  gentle 
nature  may  be  reclaimed  by  authority,  advice,  or  reprehen- 
sion; a  father,  a  husband,  a  friend,  may  do  good  in  the  case. 
There  are  a  sort  of  lazy  and  sluggish  people,  that  live  as  if  they 
were  asleep,  and  must  be  lugged  and  pinched  to  wake  them. 
These  men  are  betwixt  grateful  and  ungrateful;  they  will 
neither  deny  an  obligation  nor  return  it,  and  only  want  quick- 
ening. I  will  do  all  I  can  to  hinder  any  man  from  ill-doing, 
but  especially  a  friend;  and  yet  more  especially  from  doing 
ill  to  me.  I  will  rub  up  his  memory  with  new  benefits:  if 
that  will  not  serve,  I  will  proceed  to  good  counsel,  and  from 
thence  to  rebuke:  if  all  fails,  I  will  look  upon  him  as  a  des- 
perate debtor,  and  even  let  him  alone  in  his  ingratitude,  with- 
out making  him  my  enemy:  for  no  necessity  shall  ever  make 
me  spend  time  in  wrangling  with  any  man  upon  that  point. 
Assiduity  of  obliging  strikes  upon  the  conscience,  as  well  as 

the  memory,  and  pursues  an  ungrateful  man 
Perseverance  ^j||    ^^    becomes    grateful:     if  one    good    office 

in  obliging  .,,  ,      .  °  J  ,      ,  ,  .    , 

Will  not  do  It,  try  a  second,  and  then  a  third. 

No  man  can  be  so  thankless,  but  either  shame,  occasion,  or 
example,  will,  at  some  time  or  other,  prevail  upon  him.  The 
very  beasts  themselves,  even  lions  and  tigers,  are  gained  by 
good  usage:  beside,  that  one  obligation  does  naturally  draw 
on  another;  and  a  man  would  not  willingly  leave  his  own 
work  imperfect.  "I  have  helped  him  thus  far,  and  I  will  even 
go  through  with  it  now."  So  that,  over  and  above  the  de- 
light and  the  virtue  of  obliging,  one  good  turn  is  a  shouting- 
horn  to  another.  This,  of  all  hints,  is  perhaps  the  most  ef- 
fectual, as  well  as  the  most  generous. 

In  some  cases  it  must  be  carried  more  home:    as  in  that  of 

Julius  Caesar,  who,  as  he  was  hearing  a  cause. 
In  some  cases  x\\t  defendant  finding  himself  pinched;  "Sir," 
a  man  may  be  ^  i  u  ^^  ^^^  ^^  remember  a  strain  you 
minded  of  a  ^     .  ,  ,  i    i     • 

henejit  8°^    ^^^    your    ancle   when    you    commanded    m 

Spain;  and  that  a  Soldier  lent  you  his  cloak 
for  a  cushion,  upon  the  top  of  a  craggy  rock,  under  the 
shade  of  a  little  tree,  in  the  heat  of  the  day?"  "I  remem- 
ber it  perfectly  well,"  says  Caesar,  "and  that  when  I  was 
ready  to  choke  with  thirst,  an  honest  fellow  fetched  me  a 
draught  of  water  in  his  helmet."  "But  that  man,  and  that  hel- 
met," says  the  soldier,  "does  Caesar  think  that  he  could  not 


SENECA  OF  BENEFITS  63 

know  them  again,  if  he  saw  them?"  "The  man  perchance,  I 
might,"  says  Caesar,  somewhat  offended,  "but  not  the  hel- 
met. But  what  is  the  story  to  my  business?  you  are  none  of 
the  man."  "Pardon  me.  Sir,"  says  the  soldier,  "I  am  that 
very  man;  but  Caesar  may  well  forget  me;  for  I  have  been 
trepanned  since,  and  lost  an  eye  at  the  battle  of  Munda, 
where  that  helmet  too  had  the  honour  to  be  cleft  with  a 
Spanish  blade."  Caesar  took  it  as  it  was  intended;  and  it 
was  an  honourable  and  a  prudent  way  of  refreshing  his 
memory.  But  this  would  not  have  gone  down  so  well  with 
Tiberius:  for  when  an  old  acquaintance  of  his  began  his  ad- 
dress to  him  with,  "You  remember,  Caesar."  "No,"  says 
Caesar,  (cutting  him  short,)  "I  do  not  remember  what  I 
WAS."  Now,  with  him,  it  was  better  to  be  forgotten  than 
remembered;  for  an  old  friend  was  as  bad  as  an  informer. 
It  is  a  common  thing  for  men  to  hate  the  authors  of  their  pre- 
ferment, as  the  witnesses  of  their  mean  original. 

There  are  some  people  well  enough  disposed  to  be  grateful, 
but  they  cannot  hit  upon  it  without  a 
prompter;  they  are  a  little  like  school  boys  ^°'^^  people 
that  have  treacherous  memories;  it  is  but  T^fn//  ?i 
helping  them  here  and  there  with  a  word,  ^  prompter 
when  they  stick,  and  they  will  go  through 
with  their  lesson;  they  must  be  taught  to  be  thankful,  and  it  is 
a  fair  step,  if  we  can  but  bring  them  to  be  willing,  and  only 
offer  at  it.  Some  benefits  we  have  neglected;  some  we  are 
not  willing  to  remember.  He  is  ungrateful  that  disowns  an 
obligation,  and  so  is  he  that  dissembles  it,  or  to  his  power  does 
not  requite  it;  but  the  worst  of  all  is  he  that  forgets  it.  — 
Conscience,  or  occasion,  may  revive  the  rest;  but  here  the 
very  memory  of  it  is  lost.  Those  eyes  that  cannot  endure 
the  light  are  weak,  but  those  are  stark  blind  that  cannot  see  it. 
I  do  not  love  to  hear  people  say,  "Alas!  poor  man,  he  has 
forgotten  it:"  as  if  that  were  the  excuse  of  ingratitude,  which 
is  the  very  cause  of  it:  for  if  he  were  not  ungrateful,  he  would 
not  be  forgetful,  and  lay  that  out  of  the  way  which  should  be 
always  uppermost  and  in  sight.  He  that  thinks  as  he  ought  to 
do,  of  requiting  a  benefit,  is  in  no  danger  of  forgetting  it.  — • 
There  are,  indeed,  some  benefits  so  great,  that  they  can  never 
slip  the  memory;  but  those  which  are  less  in  value,  and  more 
in  number,  do  commonly  escape  us.  We  are  apt  enough  to 
acknowledge,  that  "such  a  man  has  been  the  making  of  us;" 
so   long   as  we   are  in   possession   of  the   advantage   he   has 


64  SENECA  OF  BENEFITS 

brought  us;  but  new  appetites  deface  old  kindnesses,  and  we 
carry  our  prospect  forward  to  something  more,  without  consi- 
dering what  we  have  obtained  already.  All  that  is  past  we 
give  for  lost;  so  that  we  are  only  intent  upon  the  future. 
When  a  benefit  is  once  out  of  sight,  or  out  of  use,  it  is 
buried. 

It  is  the  freak  of  many  people,  they  cannot  do  a  good  office 

but  they  are  presently  boasting  of  it,  drunk 
There  must  be  ^^  sober:  and  about  it  goes  into  all  compa- 
1] benefits  ^"^        "^^^'   "^hat   wonderful   things   they   have   done 

for  this  man,  and  what  for  the  other.  A  fool- 
ish and  a  dangerous  vanity,  of  a  doubtful  friend  to  make  a 
certain  enemy.  For  these  reproaches  and  contempts  will 
set  every  body's  tongue  a  walking;  and  people  will  conclude, 
that  these  things  would  never  be,  if  there  were  not  something 
very  extraordinary  in  the  bottom  of  it.  When  it  comes  to 
that  once,  there  is  not  any  calumny  but  fastens  more  or  less, 
nor  any  falsehood  so  incredible,  but  in  some  part  or  other  of 
it,  shall  pass  for  a  truth.  Our  great  mistake  is  this,  we  are 
still  inclined  to  make  the  most  of  what  we  give,  and  the  least 
of  what  we  receive;  whereas  we  should  do  the  clean  con- 
trary. "It  might  have  been  more,  but  he  had  a  great  many 
to  oblige.  It  was  as  much  as  he  could  well  spare;  he  will 
make  it  up  some  other  time,"  &c.  Nay,  we  should  be  so  far 
from  making  publication  of  our  bounties,  as  not  to  hear  them 
so  much  as  mentioned  without  sweetening  the  matter:  as, 
"Alas,  I  owe  him  a  great  deal  more  than  that  comes  to.  If 
it  were  in  my  power  to  serve  him,  I  should  be  very  glad  of 
it."  And  this,  too,  not  with  the  figure  of  a  compliment,  but 
with  all  humanity  and  truth.  There  was  a  man  of  quality, 
that  in  the  triumviral  proscription,  was  saved  by  one  of 
Caesar's  friends,  who  would  be  still  twitting  him  with  it;  who 
it  was  that  preserved  him,  and  telling  him  over  and  over, 
"you  had  gone  to  pot,  friend,  but  for  me."  "Pr'ythee,"  says 
the  proscribed,  "let  me  hear  no  more  of  this,  or  even  leave 
me  as  you  found  me:  I  am  thankful  enough  of  myself  to  ac- 
knowledge that  I  owe  you  my  life,  but  it  is  death  to  have  it 
rung  in  my  ears  perpetually  as  a  reproach;  it  looks  as  if  you 
had  only  saved  me  to  carry  me  about  for  a  spectacle.  I  would 
fain  forget  the  misfortune  that  I  was  once  a  prisoner,  without 
being  led  in  triumph  every  day  of  my  life." 
Oh !  the  pride  and  folly  of  a  great  fortune,  that  turns  bene- 


SENECA  OF  BENEFITS  65 

fits    into    injuries!    that    delights    in    excesses, 

and     disgraces     every     thing    it    does!      Who    Some  bounties 

Ml  ■  P  .  1  are  bestowed 

receive    any   thing  from    it   upon   these    ^^^  insolence 

terms?  the  higher  it  raises  us,  the  more  sor- 
did it  makes  us.  Whatsoever  it  gives  it  corrupts.  What  is 
there  in  it  that  should  thus  puff  us  up?  by  what  magic  is  it 
that  we  are  so  transformed,  that  we  do  no  longer  know  our- 
selves? Is  it  impossible  for  greatness  to  be  liberal  without  in- 
solence? The  benefits  that  we  receive  from  our  superiors  are 
then  welcome  when  they  come  with  an  open  hand,  and  a 
clear  brow;  without  either  contumely  or  state;  and  so  as  to 
prevent  our  necessities.  The  benefit  is  never  the  greater  for 
the  making  of  a  bustle  and  a  noise  about  it:  but  the  benefac- 
tor is  much  the  less  for  the  ostentation  of  his  good  deeds; 
which  makes  that  odious  to  us,  which  would  be  otherwise 
delightful.  Tiberius  had  gotten  a  trick,  when  any  man  begged 
money  of  him,  to  refer  him  to  the  senate,  where  all  the  peti- 
tioners were  to  deliver  up  the  names  of  their  creditors.  His 
end  perhaps  was,  to  deter  men  from  asking,  by  exposing  the 
condition  of  their  fortunes  to  an  examination.  But  it  was, 
however,  a  benefit  turned  unto  a  reprehension,  and  he  made  a 
reproach  of  a  bounty. 

But  it  is  not  enough  yet  to  forbear  the  casting  of  a  benefit 
in    a    man's    teeth;     for   there    are    some    that 
will  not  allow  it  to  be  so  much  as  challenged.     ^"  ^^"^^  '^^^^  ^ 
For  an  ill  man,  say  they,  will  not   make  a  re-    "^^^."^fy  ^' 

•  T€7Tlt7l(l€u  Of 

turn,  though  it  be  demanded,  and  a  good  man  ^  benefit 
will  do  it  of  himself:  and  then  the  asking  of 
it  seems  to  turn  it  into  a  debt.  It  is  a  kind  of  injury  to  be 
too  quick  with  the  former:  for  to  call  upon  him  too  soon  re- 
proaches him,  as  if  he  would  not  have  done  it  otherwise. 
Nor  would  I  recal  a  benefit  from  any  man  so  as  to  force  it,  but 
only  to  receive  it.  If  I  let  him  quite  alone,  I  make  myself 
guilty  of  his  ingratitude:  and  undo  him  for  want  of  plain 
dealing.  A  father  reclaims  a  disobedient  son,  a  wife  reclaims 
a  dissolute  husband;  and  one  friend  excites  the  languishing 
kindness  of  another.  How  many  men  are  lost  for  want  of 
being  touched  to  the  quick?  So  long  as  I  am  not  pressed,  I 
will  rather  desire  a  favour,  than  so  much  as  mention  a  requi- 
tal; but  if  my  country,  my  family,  or  my  liberty,  be  at 
stake,  my  zeal  and  indignation  shall  over-rule  my  modesty, 
and  the  world  shall  then  understand  that  I  have  done  all  I 
could,  not  to  stand  in  need  of  an  ungrateful  man.     And  in 


66  SENECA  OF  BENEFITS 

conclusion,  the  necessity  of  receiving  a  benefit  shall  over- 
come the  shame  of  recalling  it.  Nor  is  it  only  allowable  upon 
some  exigents  to  put  the  receiver  in  mind  of  a  good  turn,  but 
it  is  many  times  for  the  common  advantage  of  both  parties. 


CHAP.   XIV 

How  far  to  oblige  or  requite  a  wicked  man 

There  are  some  benefits  whereof  a  wicked  man  is  wholly 
incapable;  of  which  hereafter.  There  are  others,  which  are 
bestowed  upon  him,  not  for  his  own  sake,  but  for  secondary 
reasons;  and  of  these  we  have  spoken  in  part  already. 
There  are,  moreover,  certain  common  offices  of  humanity, 
which  are  only  allowed  him  as  he  is  a  man,  and  without  any 
regard  either  to  vice  or  virtue.  To  pass  over  the  first  point; 
the  second  must  be  handled  with  care  and  distinction,  and  not 
without  some  seeming  exceptions  to  the  general  rule:  as 
first,  here  is  no  choice  or  intention  in  the  case,  but  it  is  a  good 
office  done  him  for  some  by-interest,  or  by  chance.  Secondly, 
There  is  no  judgment  in  it  neither,  for  it  is  to  a  wicked  man. 
But  to  shorten  the  matter:  without  these  circumstances  it  is 
not  properly  a  benefit;  or  at  least  not  to  him;  for  it  looks 
another  way.  I  rescue  a  friend  from  thieves,  and  the  other 
escapes  for  company.  I  discharge  a  debt  for  a  friend,  and 
the  other  comes  off  too;  for  they  were  both  in  a  bond.  The 
third  is  of  a  great  latitude,  and  varies  according  to  the  degree 
of  generosity  on  the  one  side,  and  of  wickedness  on  the 
other.  Some  benefactors  will  supererogate,  and  do  more 
than  they  are  bound  to  do;  and  some  men  are  so  lewd,  that 
it  is  dangerous  to  do  them  any  sort  of  good;  no,  not  so  much 
as  by  way  of  return  or  requital. 

If  the  benefactor's  bounty  must  extend  to  the  bad  as  well 
as  the  good;  put  the  case,  that  I  promise  a 
How  to  oblige  good  office  to  an  ungrateful  man;  we  are  first 
an  ungrateful  ^^  distinguish  (as  is  said  before)  betwixt  a 
common  benefit  and  a  personal;  betwixt  what 
is  given  for  merit  and  what  for  company.  Secondly,  Whether 
or  not  we  know  the  person  to  be  ungrateful,  and  can  reason- 
ably conclude,  that  this  vice  is  incurable.  Thirdly,  A  consi- 
deration must  be  had  of  the  promise,  how  far  that  may  oblige 


SENECA  OF  BENEFITS  e^ 

us.  The  two  first  points  are  cleared  both  in  one:  we  cannot 
justify  any  particular  kindness  for  one  that  we  conclude  to 
be  a  hopelessly  wicked  man:  so  that  the  force  of  the  promise 
is  in  the  single  point  in  question.  In  the  promise  of  a  good 
office  to  a  wicked  or  ungrateful  man,  I  am  to  blame  if  I  did 
it  knowingly;  and  I  am  to  blame  nevertheless,  if  I  did  it 
otherwise:  but  I  must  yet  make  it  good,  (under  due  qualifi- 
cations,) because  I  promised  it;  that  is  to  say,  matters  conti- 
nuing in  the  same  state,  for  no  man  is  answerable  for  acci- 
dents. I  will  sup  at  such  a  place  though  it  be  cold;  I  will 
rise  at  such  an  hour  though  I  be  sleepy;  but  if  it  prove  tem- 
pestuous, or  that  I  fall  sick  of  a  fever,  I  will  neither  do  the 
one  nor  the  other.  I  promise  to  second  a  friend  in  a  quarrel, 
or  to  plead  his  cause;  and  when  I  come  into  the  field,  or 
into  the  court,  it  proves  to  be  against  my  father  or  my  bro- 
ther: I  promise  to  go  a  journey  with  him,  but  there  is  no  tra- 
velling upon  the  road  for  robbing;  my  child  is  fallen  sick; 
or  my  wife  in  labour:  these  circumstances  are  sufficient  to 
discharge  me;  for  a  promise  against  law  or  duty  is  void  in 
its  own  nature.  The  counsels  of  a  wise  man  are  certain,  but 
events  are  uncertain.  And  yet  if  I  have  passed  a  rash  promise, 
I  will  in  some  degree  punish  the  temerity  of  making  it  with 
the  damage  of  keeping  it;  unless  it  turn  very  much  to  my 
shame  or  detriment:  and  then  I  will  be  my  own  confessor  in 
the  point,  and  rather  be  once  guilty  of  denying,  than  always 
of  giving.  It  is  not  with  a  benefit  as  with  a  debt:  it  is  one 
thing  to  trust  an  ill  paymaster,  and  another  thing  to  oblige  an 
unworthy  person:  the  one  is  an  ill  man,  and  the  other  only 
an  ill  husband. 

There  was  a  valiant  fellow  in  the  army,  that  Philip  of 
Macedon  took  particular  notice  of,  and  he  gave  him  seve- 
ral considerable  marks  of  the  kindness  he  had  for  him.  This 
soldier  puts  to  sea,  and  was  cast  away  upon  a  coast,  where  a 
charitable  neighbour  took  him  up  half  dead;  carried  him  to 
his  house;  and  there,  at  his  own  charge  maintained  and  pro- 
vided for  him  thirty  days,  until  he  was  perfectly  recovered: 
and,  after  all,  furnished  him  over  and  above  with  a  viaticum 
at  parting.  The  soldier  told  him  the  mighty  matters  that  he 
would  do  for  him  in  return,  so  soon  as  he  should  have  the 
honour  once  again  to  see  his  master.  To  court  he  goes,  tells 
Philip  of  the  wreck,  but  not  a  syllable  of  his  preserver,  and 
begs  the  estate  of  this  very  man  that  kept  him  alive.  It  was 
with  Philip  as  it  was  with  many  other  princes,  they  give  they 


68  SENECA  OF  BENEFITS 

know  not  what,  especially  in  a  time  of  war.  He  granted  the 
soldier  his  request,  contemplating,  at  the  same  time,  the  im- 
possibility of  satisfying  so  many  ravenous  appetites  as  he  had 
to  please.  When  the  good  man  came  to  be  turned  out  of  all, 
he  was  not  so  meally-mouthed  as  to  thank  his  majesty  for  not 
giving  away  his  person  too  as  well  as  his  fortune;  but  in  a 
bold,  frank  letter  to  Philip,  made  a  just  report  of  the  whole 
story.  The  King  was  so  incensed  at  the  abuse,  that  he  im- 
mediately commanded  the  right  owner  to  be  restored  to  his 
estate,  and  the  unthankful  guest  and  soldier  to  be  stigmatized 
for  an  example  to  others.  Should  Philip  now  have  kept  this 
promise?  First,  he  owed  the  soldier  nothing.  Secondly,  it 
would  have  been  injurious  and  impious.  And,  lastly,  a  pre- 
cedent of  dangerous  consequence  to  human  society.  For  it 
would  have  been  little  less  that  an  interdiction  of  fire  and 
water  to  the  miserable  to  have  inflicted  such  a  penalty  upon 
relieving  them.  So  that  there  must  be  always  some  tacit  ex- 
ception or  reserve:  //  /  can,  if  I  may;  or,  if  matters  con- 
tinue as  they  were. 

If  it  should  be  my  fortune  to  receive  a  benefit  from  one 
that  afterwards  betrays  his  country,  I  should 
The  case  of  an  still  reckon  myself  obliged  to  him  for  such 
obligation  from  ^  requital  as  might  stand  V\^ith  my  public 
°^^ d\t^'  duty.  I  would  not  furnish  him  with  arms, 
his  country  nor   with   money,    or   credit,    or   levy   or   pay 

soldiers;  but  I  should  not  stick  to  gratify  him 
at  my  own  expense  with  such  curiosities  as  might  please  him 
one  way,  without  doing  mischief  another;  I  would  not  do  any 
thing  that  might  contribute  to  the  support  or  advantage  of  his 
party.  But  what  should  I  do  now  in  the  case  of  a  benefactor, 
that  should  afterwards  become,  not  only  mine  and  my  coun- 
try's enemy,  but  the  common  enemy  of  mankind.?  I  would 
here  distinguish  betwixt  the  wickedness  of  a  man  and  the  cru- 
elty of  a  beast:  betwixt  a  limited  or  a  particular  passion  and 
a  sanguinary  rage,  that  extends  to  the  hazard  and  destruction 
of  human  society.  In  the  former  case  I  would  quit  scores, 
that  I  might  have  no  more  to  do  with  him;  but  if  he  comes 
once  to  a  delight  in  blood,  and  to  act  outrages  with  greedi- 
ness; to  study  and  invent  torments,  and  to  take  pleasure  in 
them;  the  law  of  reasonable  nature  has  discharged  me  of  such 
a  debt.  But  this  is  an  impiety  so  rare  that  it  might  pass  for  a 
portent,  and  he  reckoned  among  comets  and  monsters.  Let 
us  therefore  restrain  our  discourse  to  such  men  as  we  detest 


SENECA  OF  BENEFITS  69 

without  horror;  such  men  as  we  see  every  day  in  courts, 
camps,  and  upon  the  seats  of  justice;  to  such  wicked  men  I 
will  return  what  I  have  received,  without  making  any  advan- 
tage of  their  unrighteousness. 

It  does  not  divert  the  Almighty  from  being  still  gracious, 
though  we  proceed  daily  in  the  abuse  of  his 
bounties.  How  many  are  there  that  enjoy  P^o^^d^nce  is 
the  comfort  of  the  light  that  do  not  deserve  ^'^tle^^kked 
it;  that  wish  they  had  never  been  born;  and 
yet  Nature  goes  quietly  on  with  her  work,  and  allows  them  a 
being,  even  in  despite  of  their  unthankfulness?  Such  a  knave, 
we  cry,  was  better  used  than  I:  and  the  same  complaint  we  ex- 
tend to  Providence  itself.  How  many  wicked  men  have  good 
crops,  when  better  than  themselves  have  their  fruits  blasted  ? 
Such  a  man,  we  say,  has  treated  me  very  ill.  Why,  what 
should  we  do,  but  that  very  thing  which  is  done  by  God  him- 
self.? that  is  to  say,  give  to  the  ignorant,  and  persevere  to  the 
wicked.  All  our  ingratitude,  we  see,  does  not  turn  Pro- 
vidence from  pouring  down  of  benefits,  even  upon  those  that 
question  whence  they  come.  The  wisdom  of  heaven  does 
all  things  with  a  regard  to  the  good  of  the  universe,  and  the 
blessings  of  nature  are  granted  in  common,  to  the  worst  as 
well  as  to  the  best  of  men;  for  they  live  promiscuously 
together;  and  it  is  God's  will,  that  the  wicked  shall  rather 
fare  the  better  for  the  good,  than  that  the  good  shall  fare  the 
worse  for  the  wicked.  It  is  true  that  a  wise  prince  will 
confer  peculiar  honours  only  upon  the  worthy;  but  in  the 
dealing  of  a  public  dole,  there  is  no  respect  had  to  the  man- 
ners of  the  man;  but  a  thief  or  traitor,  shall  put  in  for  a 
share  as  well  as  an  honest  man.  If  a  good  man  and  a  wicked 
man  sail  both  in  the  same  bottom,  it  is  impossible  that  the 
same  wind  which  favours  the  one  should  cross  the  other. 
The  common  benefits  of  laws,  privileges,  communities,  let- 
ters, and  medicines,  are  permitted  to  the  bad  as  well  as  to 
the  good;  and  no  man  ever  yet  suppressed  a  sovereign  reme- 
dy for  fear  a  wicked  man  might  be  cured  with  it.  Cities  are 
built  for  both  sorts,  and  the  same  remedy  works  upon  both 
alike.  In  these  cases,  we  are  to  set  an  estimate  upon  the 
persons:  there  is  a  great  difference  betwixt  the  choosing  of 
a  man  and  the  not  excluding  him:  the  law  is  open  to  the 
rebellious  as  well  as  to  the  obedient:  there  are  some  benefits 
which,  if  they  were  not  allowed  to  all,  could  not  be  enjoyed 
by  any.     The  sun  was  never  made  for  me,  but  for  the  com- 


70  SENECA  OF  BENEFITS 

fort  of  the  world,  and  for  the  providential  order  of  the  sea- 
sons; and  yet  I  am  not  without  my  private  obHgation  also. 
To  conclude,  he  that  will  not  oblige  the  wicked  and  the  un- 
grateful, must  resolve  to  oblige  no  body;  for  in  some  sort  or 
another  we  are  all  of  us  wicked,  we  are  all  of  us  ungrateful, 
every  man  of  us. 

We  have  been  discoursing  all  this  while  how  far  a  wicked 

^    .  ,   ,        .  .    man    may     be    obliged,    and    the  Stoics    tell 

A  wicked  man  IS  in-              ^i^^u^u                     ^l  li-j 

..^„i.i.  r.f  .u.^.-t;,  us,    at    last,    that    he    cannot    be  obliged    at 

capable  0}  a  benefit     ,'       _           '                     ,           ,.           .  ,°             . 

all.  jbor  they  make  him  incapable  or 
any  good,  and  consequently  of  any  benefit.  But  he  has  this 
advantage,  that  if  he  cannot  be  obliged,  he  cannot  be  un- 
grateful: For,  if  he  cannot  receive,  he  is  not  bound  to  return: 
On  the  other  side,  a  good  man  and  an  ungrateful,  are  a  con- 
tradiction: So  that  at  this  rate  there  is  no  such  thing  as  in- 
gratitude in  nature.  They  compare  a  wicked  man's  mind  to 
a  vitiated  stomach,  he  corrupts  whatever  he  receives,  and  the 
best  nourishment  turns  to  the  disease.  But  taking  this  for 
granted,  a  wicked  man  may  yet  so  far  be  obliged  as  to  pass  for 
ungrateful,  if  he  does  not  requite  what  he  receives:  for  though 
it  be  not  a  perfect  benefit,  yet  he  receives  something  like  it. 
There  are  goods  of  the  mind,  the  body,  and  of  fortune.  Of 
the  first  sort,  fools  and  wicked  men  are  wholly  incapable;  to 
the  rest  they  may  be  admitted.  But  why  should  I  call 
any  man  ungrateful,  you  will  say,  for  not  restoring  that  which 
I  deny  to  be  a  benefit.?  I  answer,  that  if  the  receiver  take  it 
for  a  benefit,  and  fails  of  a  return,  it  is  ingratitude  in  him: 
for  that  which  goes  for  an  obligation  among  wicked  men,  is 
an  obligation  upon  them:  and  they  may  pay  one  another  in 
their  own  coin;  the  money  is  current,  whether  it  be  gold  or 
leather,  when  it  comes  once  to  be  authorized.  Nay,  Cleanthes 
carries  it  farther;  He  that  is  wanting,  says  he,  to  a  kind  office, 
though  it  be  no  benefit,  would  have  done  the  same  thing  if 
it  had  been  one;  and  is  as  guilty  as  a  thief  is,  that  has  set  his 
booty,  and  is  already  armed  and  mounted  with  a  purpose  to 
seize  it,  though  he  has  not  yet  drawn  blood.  Wickedness  is 
formed  in  the  heart;  and  the  matter  of  fact  is  only  the  dis- 
covery and  the  execution  of  it.  Now,  though  a  wicked  man 
cannot  either  receive  or  bestow  a  benefit,  because  he  wants 
the  will  of  doing  good,  and  for  that  he  is  no  longer  wicked, 
when  virtue  has  taken  possession  of  him;  yet  we  commonly 
call  it  one,  as  we  call  a  man  illiterate  that  is  not  learned,  and 
naked  that  is  not  well  clad;  not  but  that  the  one  can  read, 
and  the  other  is  covered. 


SENECA  OF  BENEFITS  71 

CHAP.    XV 

A  general  view  of  the  parts  and  duties  of  the  benefactor 

The  three  main  points  in  the  question  of  benefits  are,  first, 
a  judicious  choice  in  the  object;  secondly,  in  the  matter  of  our 
benevolence;  and  thirdly,  a  grateful  felicity  in  the  manner  of 
expressing  it.  But  there  are  also  incumbent  upon  the  bene- 
factor other  considerations,  which  will  deserve  a  place  in  this 
discourse. 

It  is  not  enough  to  do  one  good  turn,  and  to  do  it  with  a  good 
grace    too,    unless    we     follow   it   with    more, 
and    without    either    upbraiding    or    repining.     Obligations  must 
It    is    a    common    shift,    to    charge    that    upon    ^e  followed  with- 
,  .  .,  (•       \  ■  I'l-         0^^  upbraiding  or 

the     mgratitude     or     the     receiver,     which,  in    repining 

truth,  is  most  commonly  the  levity  and  in- 
discretion of  the  giver;  for  all  circumstances  must  be  duly 
weighed  to  consummate  the  action.  Some  there  are  that  we 
find  ungrateful;  but  what  with  our  frowardness,  change  of 
humour  and  reproaches,  there  are  more  that  we  make  so. 
And  this  is  the  business:  we  give  with  design,  and  most  to 
those  that  are  able  to  give  most  again.  We  give  to  the  cove- 
tous, and  to  the  ambitious;  to  those  that  can  never  be  thank- 
ful, (for  their  desires  are  insatiable,)  and  to  those  that  will 
not.  He  that  is  a  tribune  would  be  praetor;  the  praetor  a 
consul;  never  reflecting  upon  what  he  was,  but  only  looking 
forward  to  what  he  would  be.  People  are  still  computing. 
Must  I  lose  this  or  that  benefit?  If  it  be  lost,  the  fault  lies  in 
the  ill  bestowing  of  it;  for  rightly  placed,  it  is  as  good  as  con- 
secrated; if  we  be  deceived  in  another,  let  us  not  be  de- 
ceived in  ourselves  too.  A  charitable  man  will  mend  the 
matter:  and  say  to  himself,  Perhaps  he  has  forgot  it,  perchance 
he  could  not,  perhaps  he  will  yet  requite  it.  A  patient  creditor 
will,  of  an  ill  pay-master,  in  time  make  a  good  one;  an  ob- 
stinate goodness  overcomes  an  ill  disposition,  as  a  barren  soil 
is  made  fruitful  by  care  and  tillage.  But  let  a  man  be  never 
so  ungrateful  or  inhuman,  he  shall  never  destroy  the  satisfac- 
tion of  my  having  done  a  good  office. 

But  what  if  others  will  be  wicked?    does  it  follow  that  we 
must  be  so  too?     If  others  will  be  ungrateful, 
must    we    therefore     be    inhuman!      To    give  We  must  per se- 
and    to    lose,  is    nothing;    but  to   lose   and   to  '"Hf]'^   °"'^ 
give   still,  is  the  part  of  a  great   mind.     And 


72  SENECA  OF  BENEFITS 

the  other's  in  effect,  is  the  greater  loss;  for  the  one  does  but 
lose  his  benefit,  and  the  other  loses  himself.  The  light  shines 
upon  the  profane  and  sacrilegious  as  well  as  upon  the  righteous. 
How  many  disappointments  do  we  meet  with  in  our  wives 
and  children,  and  yet  we  couple  still?  He  that  has  lost  one 
battle  hazards  another.  The  mariner  puts  to  sea  again  after 
a  wreck.  An  illustrious  mind  does  not  propose  the  profit  of 
a  good  ojffice,  but  the  duty.  If  the  world  be  wicked  we  should 
yet  persevere  in  well-doing,  even  among  evil  men.  I  had 
rather  never  receive  a  kindness  than  never  bestow  one:  not 
to  return  a  benefit  is  the  greater  sin,  but  not  to  confer  it  is  the 
earlier.  We  cannot  propose  to  ourselves  a  more  glorious  ex- 
ample than  that  of  the  Almighty,  who  neither  needs  nor  ex- 
pects any  thing  from  us;  and  yet  he  is  continually  shov/ering 
down  and  distributing  his  mercies  and  his  grace  among  us, 
not  only  for  our  necessities,  but  also  for  our  delights;  as  fruits 
and  seasons,  rain  and  sunshine,  veins  of  water  and  of  metal; 
and  all  this  to  the  wicked  as  well  as  to  the  good,  and  without 
any  other  end  than  the  common  benefit  of  the  receivers. 
With  what  face  then  can  we  be  mercenary  one  to  another, 
that  have  received  all  things  from  Divine  Providence  gratis? 
It  is  a  common  saying,  "I  gave  such  or  such  a  man  so  much 
money,  I  would  I  had  thrown  it  into  the  sea:"  and  yet  the 
merchant  trades  again  after  a  piracy,  and  the  banker  ventures 
afresh  after  a  bad  security.  He  that  will  do  no  good  offices 
after  a  disappointment,  must  stand  still,  and  do  just  nothing  at 
all.  The  plough  goes  on  after  a  barren  year:  and  while  the 
ashes  are  yet  warm,  we  raise  a  new  house  upon  the  ruins  of 
a  former.  What  obligations  can  be  greater  than  those  which 
children  receive  from  their  parents?  and  yet  should  we  give 
them  over  in  their  infancy,  it  were  all  to  no  purpose.  Bene- 
fits, like  grain,  must  be  followed  from  the  seed  to  the  harvest. 
I  will  not  so  much  as  leave  any  place  for  ingratitude.  I  will 
pursue,  and  I  will  encompass  the  receiver  with  benefits;  so 
that  let  him  look  which  way  he  will,  his  benefactor  shall  be 
still  in  his  eye,  even  when  he  would  avoid  his  own  memory: 
and  then  I  will  remit  to  one  man  because  he  calls  for  it:  to 
another  because  he  does  not;  to  a  third,  because  he  is  wick- 
ed; and  to  a  fourth,  because  he  is  the  contrary.  I  will  cast 
away  a  good  turn  upon  a  bad  man,  and  I  will  requite  a  good 
one;  the  one  because  it  is  my  duty,  and  the  other  that  I  may 
not  be  in  debt.     I  do  not  love  to  hear  any  man  complain  that 


SENECA  OF  BENEFITS  73 

he  has  met  with  a  thankless  man.  If  he  has  met  but  with  one, 
he  has  either  been  very  fortunate  or  very  careful.  And  yet  care 
is  not  sufficient:  for  there  is  no  way  to  escape  the  hazard  of 
losing  a  benefit  but  the  not  bestowing  of  it,  and  to  neglect  a 
duty  to  myself  for  fear  another  should  abuse  it.  It  is  another's 
fault  if  he  be  ungrateful,  but  it  is  mine  if  I  do  not  give.  To 
find  one  thankful  man,  I  will  oblige  a  great  many  that  are 
not  so.  The  business  of  mankind  would  be  at  a  stand  if  we 
should  do  nothing  for  fear  of  miscarriages  in  matters  of  cer- 
tain event.  I  will  try  and  believe  all  things,  before  I  give  any 
man  over,  and  do  all  that  is  possible  that  I  may  not  lose  a 
good  office  and  a  friend  together.  What  do  I  know  but  he 
may  misunderstand  the  obligation?  business  may  have  put  it  out 
of  his  head,  or  taken  him  off  from  it:  he  may  have  slipt  his  op- 
portunity. I  will  say,  in  excuse  of  human  weakness,  that  one 
man's  memory  is  not  sufficient  for  all  things;  it  is  but  a  limit- 
ed capacity,  so  as  to  hold  only  so  much,  and  no  more:  and 
when  it  is  once  full,  it  must  let  out  part  of  what  it  had  to  take 
in  any  thing  beside;  and  the  last  benefit  ever  sits  closest  to 
us.  In  our  youth  we  forget  the  obligations  of  our  infancy, 
and  when  we  are  men  we  forget  those  of  our  youth.  If 
nothing  will  prevail,  let  him  keep  what  he  has  and  welcome; 
but  let  him  have  a  care  of  returning  evil  for  good,  and  mak- 
ing it  dangerous  for  a  man  to  do  his  duty.  I  would  no  more 
give  a  benefit  for  such  a  man  than  I  would  lend  money  to  a 
beggardly  spendthrift;  or  deposit  any  in  the  hands  of  a  known 
knight  of  the  post.  However  the  case  stands,  an  ungrateful 
person  is  never  the  better  for  a  reproach;  if  he  be  already 
hardened  in  his  wickedness,  he  gives  no  heed  to  it;  and  if  he 
be  not,  it  turns  a  doubtful  modesty  into  an  incorrigible  impu- 
dence: beside  that,  he  watches  for  all  ill  words  to  pick  a 
quarrel  with  them. 

As  the  benefactor  is  not  to  upbraid  a  benefit,  so  neither  to 
delay  it:   the  one  is  tiresome,  and  the  other  odious.     We  must 
not  hold  men  in  hand,  as  physicians  and  sur- 
geons do  their  patients,  and  keep  them  long-     "^^^^^  should 

er  in  fear  and  pain  than  needs,  only  to  mag-      f  "°  d/^^y  in 
•  r      ^1  A  •  -1  the  doi7ig  of  a 

nity   the   cure.     A  generous   man   gives   easily,    ig^g^i 

and    receives    as    he    gives,   but    never    exacts. 
He  rejoices  in  the  return,  and  judges  favourably  of  it  what- 
ever it  be,  and  contents  himself  with  bare  thanks  for  a  re- 
quital.    It  is  a  harder  matter  with  some  to  get  the  benefit  after 


74  SENECA  OF  BENEFITS 

it  is  promised  than  the  first  promise  of  it,  there  must  be  so 
many  friends  made  in  the  case.  One  must  be  desired  to 
solicit  another;  and  he  must  be  entreated  to  move  a  third; 
and  a  fourth  must  be  at  last  besought  to  receive  it;  so  that 
the  author,  upon  the  upshot,  has  the  least  share  in  the  obliga- 
tion. It  is  then  welcome  when  it  comes  free,  and  without 
deduction;  and  no  man  either  to  intercept  or  hinder,  or  to 
detain  it.  And  let  it  be  of  such  a  quality  too,  that  it  be  not 
only  delightful  in  the  receiving,  but  after  it  is  received;  which 
it  will  certainly  be,  if  we  do  but  observe  this  rule,  never  to 
do  any  thing  for  another  which  we  would  not  honestly  desire 
for  ourselves. 


CHAP.  XVI 

How  the  receiver  ought  to  behave  himself 

There  are  certain  rules  in  common  betwixt  the  giver  and 
the  receiver.  We  must  do  both  cheerfully,  that  the  giver 
may  receive  the  fruit  of  his  benefit  in  the  very  act  of  bestow- 
ing it.  It  is  a  just  ground  of  satisfaction  to  see  a  friend 
pleased;  but  it  is  much  more  to  make  him  so.  The  intention 
of  the  one  is  to  be  suited  to  the  intention  of  the  other;  and 
there  must  be  an  emulation  betwixt  them,  whether  shall 
oblige  most.  Let  the  one  say,  that  he  has  received  a  benefit, 
and  let  the  other  persuade  himself  that  he  has  not  returned 
it.  Let  the  one  say,  /  am  paid,  and  the  other,  /  am  yet  in 
your  debt;  let  the  benefactor  acquit  the  receiver,  and  the  re- 
ceiver bind  himself.  The  frankness  of  the  discharge  height- 
ens the  obligation.  It  is  in  conversation  as  in  a  tennis  court: 
benefits  are  to  be  tossed  like  balls;  the  longer  the  rest,  the 
better  are  the  gamesters.  The  giver,  in  some  respect,  has  the 
odds,  because  (as  in  a  race)  he  starts  first,  and  the  other  must 
use  great  diligence  to  overtake  him.  The  return  must  be 
larger  than  the  first  obligation  to  come  up  to  it;  and  it  is  a 
kind  of  ingratitude  not  to  render  it  with  interest.  In  a  mat- 
ter of  money,  it  is  a  common  thing  to  pay  a  debt  out  of 
course,  and  before  it  be  due;  but  we  account  ourselves  to 
owe  nothing  for  a  good  office;    whereas  the  benefit  increases 


SENECA  OF  BENEFITS  75 

by  delay.  So  insensible  are  we  of  the  most  important  affair 
of  human  life.  That  man  were  doubtless  in  a  miserable  con- 
dition, that  could  neither  see,  nor  hear,  nor  taste,  nor  feel, 
nor  smell:  but  how  much  more  unhappy  is  he  then  that, 
wanting  a  sense  of  benefits,  loses  the  greatest  comfort  in  na- 
ture in  the  bliss  of  giving  and  receiving  them?  He  that 
takes  a  benefit  as  it  is  meant  is  in  the  right;  for  the  benefac- 
tor has  then  his  end,  and  his  only  end,  when  the  receiver  is 
grateful. 

The  more  glorious  part,  in  appearance,  is  that  of  the  giver: 
but  the   receiver   has   undoubtedly   the  harder 
game    to    play    in    many    regards.     There    are     ,      receiver 
^  c  \.  T  1 J  ^  ^       f  has  the  harder 

some   from   whom    1   would     not   accept   or    a      ^^^  ^^    , 

benefit;  that  is  to  say,  from  those  upon 
whom  I  would  not  bestow  one.  For  why  should  I  not  scorn 
to  receive  a  benefit  where  I  am  ashamed  to  owe  it?  and  I 
would  yet  be  more  tender  too,  where  I  receive,  than  where  I 
give;  for  it  is  no  torment  to  be  in  debt  where  a  man  has  no 
mind  to  pay;  as  it  is  the  greatest  delight  imaginable  to  be  en- 
gaged by  a  friend,  whom  I  should  yet  have  a  kindness  for; 
if  I  were  never  so  much  disobliged.  It  is  a  pain  to  an  honest 
and  a  generous  mind  to  lie  under  a  duty  of  affection  against 
inclination.  I  do  not  speak  here  of  wise  men,  that  love  to 
do  what  they  ought  to  do;  that  have  their  passions  at  com- 
mand; that  prescribe  laws  to  themselves,  and  keep  them 
when  they  have  done;  but  of  men  in  a  state  of  imperfec- 
tion, that  may  have  a  good  will  perhaps  to  be  honest,  and  yet 
be  overborne  by  the  contumacy  of  their  affections.  We 
must  therefore  have  a  care  to  whom  we  become  obliged; 
and  I  would  be  much  stricter  yet  in  the  choice  of  a  creditor 
for  benefits  than  for  money.  In  the  one  case,  it  is  but  paying, 
what  I  had,  and  the  debt  is  discharged;  in  the  other,  I  do 
not  only  owe  more,  but  when  I  have  paid  that,  I  am  still  in 
arrear:  and  this  law  is  the  very  foundation  of  friendship.  J 
will  suppose  myself  a  prisoner;  and  a  notorious  villain  offers 
to  lay  down  a  good  sum  of  money  for  my  redemption. 
First,  Shall  I  make  use  of  this  money  or  not?  Secondly,  If  I 
do,  what  return  shall  I  make  him  for  it?  To  the  first  point,  I 
will  take  it;  but  only  as  a  debt;  not  as  a  benefit,  that  shall 
ever  tie  me  to  a  friendship  with  him:  and,  secondly,  my  ac- 
knowledgment shall  be  only  correspondent  to  such  an  obliga- 
tion.    It  is  a  school  question,  whether  or  not  Brutus,  that 


76  SENECA  OF  BENEFITS 

thought  Caesar  not  fit  to  live,  (and  put  himself  at  the  head  of 
a  conspiracy  against  him,)  could  honestly  have  received  his 
life  from  Caesar,  if  he  had  fallen  into  Caesar's  power,  without 
examining  what  reason  moved  him  to  that  action?  How 
great  a  man  soever  he  was  in  other  cases,  without  dispute  he 
was  extremely  out  in  this,  and  below  the  dignity  of  his  pro- 
fession. For  a  Stoic  to  fear  the  name  of  a  king,  when  yet 
monarchy  is  the  best  state  of  government;  or  there  to  hope 
for  liberty,  where  so  great  rewards  are  propounded,  both  for 
tyrants  and  their  slaves;  for  him  to  imagine  ever  to  bring  the 
laws  to  their  former  state,  where  so  many  thousand  lives  had 
been  lost  in  the  contest,  not  so  much  whether  they  should 
serve  or  not,  but  who  should  be  their  master:  he  was  strange- 
ly mistaken,  in  the  nature  and  reason  of  things,  to  fancy, 
that  when  Julius  was  gone,  some  body  else  would  not  start 
up  in  his  place,  when  there  was  yet  a  Tarquin  found,  after  so 
many  kings  that  were  destroyed,  either  by  sword  or  thunder, 
and  yet  the  resolution  is,  that  he  might  have  received  it,  but 
not  as  a  benefit;  for  at  that  rate  I  owe  my  life  to  every  man 
that  does  not  take  it  way. 

Graecinus  Julius  (whom  Caligula  put  to  death  out  of  a  pure 
malice  to  his  virtue)   had  a  considerable  sum 
A  benefit  re-  ^f  money   sent   him   from   Fabius    Persicus    (a 

fuse  jor  t  e  ^^^  ^£  great  and  infamous  example)  as  a  con- 

tribution towards  the  expense  of  plays  and 
other  public  entertainments;  but  Julius  would  not  receive  it; 
and  some  of  his  friends  that  had  an  eye  more  upon  the  present 
than  the  presenter,  asked  him,  with  some  freedom,  what  he 
meant  by  refusing  it?  "Why,"  says  he,  "do  you  think  that  I 
will  take  money  where  I  would  not  take  so  much  as  a  glass 
of  wine?"  After  this  Rebilus  (a  man  of  the  same  stamp)  sent 
him  a  greater  sum  upon  the  same  score.  "You  must  excuse 
me,"  says  he  to  the  messenger,  "for  I  would  not  take  any 
thing  of  Persicus  neither." 

To  match  this  scruple  of  receiving  money  with  another  of 
keeping  it;  and  the  sum  not  above  three 
A  Pythagorean  pence,  or  a  groat  at  most.  There  was  a 
certain  Pythagorean  that  contracted  with 
a  cobler  for  a  pair  of  shoes,  and  some  three  or  four  days 
after,  going  to  pay  him  his  money,  the  shop  was  shut  up;  and 
when  he  had  knocked  a  great  while  at  the  door,  "Friend," 
says  a  fellow,  "you  may  hammer  your  heart  out  there,  for 
the  man  that  you  look  for  is  dead.     And  when  our  friends  are 


SENECA  OF  BENEFITS  77 

dead,  we  hear  no  more  news  of  them;  but  yours,  that  are  to 
live  again,  will  shift  well  enough,"  (alluding  to  Pythagoras's 
transmigration.)  Upon  this  the  philosopher  went  away,  with 
his  money  chinking  in  his  hand,  and  well  enough  content  to 
save  it:  at  last,  his  conscience  took  check  at  it;  and,  upon 
reflection,  "Though  the  man  be  dead,"  says  he,  "to  others, 
he  is  alive  to  thee;  pay  him  what  thou  owest  him:"  and  so 
he  went  back  presently,  and  thrust  it  into  his  shop  through 
the  chink  of  the  door.  Whatever  we  owe,  it  is  our  part  to 
find  where  to  pay  it,  and  to  do  it  without  asking  too;  for  whe- 
ther the  creditor  be  good  or  bad,  the  debt  is  still  the  same. 

If  a  benefit  be  forced  upon  me,  as  from  a  tyrant,  or  a  supe- 
rior, where  it  may  be  dangerous  to  refuse,  ,  ,  , ,  . 
this  is  rather  obeying  than  receiving,  where 
the  necessity  destroys  the  choice.  The  way  to  know  what  I 
have  a  mind  to  do,  is  to  leave  me  at  liberty  whether  I  will  do 
it  or  not;  but  it  is  yet  a  benefit,  if  a  man  does  me  good  in 
spite  of  my  teeth;  as  it  is  none,  if  I  do  any  man  good  against 
my  will.  A  man  may  both  hate  and  yet  receive  a  benefit  at 
the  same  time;  the  money  is  never  the  worse,  because  a  fool 
that  is  not  read  in  coins  refuses  to  take  it.  If  the  thing  be 
good  for  the  receiver,  and  so  intended,  no  matter  how  ill  it  is 
taken.  Nay,  the  receiver  may  be  obliged,  and  not  know  it: 
but  there  can  be  no  benefit  which  is  unknown  to  the  giver. 
Neither  will  I,  upon  any  terms,  receive  a  benefit  from  a  wor- 
thy person  that  may  do  him  a  mischief:  it  is  the  part  of  an 
enemy  to  save  himself  by  doing  another  man  harm. 

But  whatever  we  do,  let  us  be  sure  always  to  keep  a  grate- 
ful mind.     It  is  not  enough  to  say,  what  re- 
quital shall  a  poor  man  offer  to  a  prince;    or       ^f^,  ^  grate^u 
a.   slave   to   his   patron;  when   it   is   the   glory 
of  gratitude  that  it  depends  only  upon  the  good  will.?     Sup- 
pose  a   man   defends   my   fame;    delivers   me   from   beggary; 
saves  my  life;    or  gives  me  liberty,  that  is  more  than  life; 
how  shall  I  be  grateful  to  that  man?     I  will  receive,  cherish, 
and  rejoice  in  the  benefit.     Take  it  kindly,  and  it  is  requited: 
not  that  the  debt  itself  is  discharged,  but  it  is  nevertheless,  a 
discharge   of  the   conscience.     I   will   yet  distinguish    betwixt 
the  debtor  that  becomes  insolvent  by  expenses  upon  whores 
and  dice,  and  another  that  is  undone  by  fire  or  thieves;    nor 
do  I  take  this  gratitude  for  a  payment;   but  there  is  no  danger, 
I  presume,  of  being  arrested  for  such  a  debt. 


78  SENECA  OF  BENEFITS 

In  the  return  of  benefits  let  us  be  ready  and  cheerful,  but 

not    pressing.     There  is  as  much  greatness  of 

We  should  he         mind  in  the  owing  of  a  good  turn  as  in  doing 

ml'^imX^nate  ""[  ^^'  ^"^  ^^  "^f  ^  "°  more  force  a  requital  out 
in  the  returning  ^f  season  than  be  wanting  in  it.  He  that  pre- 
0/  benefits  cipitates  a  return,  does  as  good   as  say,  "  I  am 

weary  of  being  in  this  man's  debt:"  not  but 
that  the  hastening  of  a  requital,  as  a  good  office,  is  a  com- 
mendable disposition,  but  it  is  another  thing  to  do  it  as  a 
discharge;  for  it  looks  like  casting  off  a  heavy  and  a 
troublesome  burden.  It  is  for  the  benefactor  to  say  when 
he  will  receive  it;  no  matter  for  the  opinion  of  the  world, 
so  long  as  I  gratify  my  own  conscience;  for  I  cannot  be 
mistaken  in  myself,  but  another  may.  —  He  that  is  over- 
solicitous  to  return  a  benefit,  thinks  the  other  so  likewise  to 
receive  it.  If  he  had  rather  we  should  keep  it,  why  should 
we  refuse,  and  presume  to  dispose  of  his  treasure,  who  may 
call  it  in,  or  let  it  lie  out,  at  his  choice?  It  is  as  much  a  fault 
to  receive  what  I  ought  not,  as  not  to  give  what  I  ought:  for 
the  giver  has  the  privilege  of  choosing  his  own  time  for  re- 
ceiving. 

Some  are  too  proud  in  the  conferring  of  benefits;    others, 

in  the  receiving  of  them;  which  is,  to  say 
There  must  he     ^he     truth,     intolerable.  The      same      rule 

no  pn  e,  ei  er  gerves  both  sides,  as  in  the  case  of  a  father 
m  the  conferring  iiji  -c  r-j 

or  in  the  receiv-  ^^^  ^  ^on;  husband  and  a  wire;  one  inend 
ing  of  benefits      or     acquaintance     and     another,    where     the 

duties  are  known  and  common.  There 
are  some  that  will  not  receive  a  benefit  but  in  private,  nor 
thank  you  for  it  but  in  your  ear,  or  in  a  corner;  there  must 
be  nothing  under  hand  and  seal,  no  brokers,  notaries,  or  wit- 
nesses, in  the  case:  this  is  not  so  much  a  scruple  of  modesty 
as  a  kind  of  denying  the  obligation,  and  only  a  less  hardened 
ingratitude.  Some  receive  benefits  so  coldly  and  indifferent- 
ly, that  a  man  would  think  the  obligation  lay  on  the  other 
side:  as  who  should  say,  "Well,  since  you  will  needs  have 
it  so,  I  am  content  to  take  it."  Some  again  so  carelessly,  as  if 
they  hardly  knew  of  any  such  thing,  whereas  we  should 
rather  aggravate  the  matter:  "You  cannot  imagine  how 
many  you  have  obliged  in  this  act:  there  never  was  so  great, 
so  kind,  so  seasonable  a  courtesy."  Furnius  never  gained  so 
much  upon  Augustus  as  by  a  speech,  upon  the  getting  of  his 
father's  pardon  for  siding  with  Anthony:    "This  grace,"  says 


SENECA  OF  BENEFITS  79 

he,  "is  the  only  injury  that  ever  Caesar  did  me:  for  it  has 
put  me  upon  a  necessity  of  living  and  dying  ungrateful."  It 
is  safer  to  affront  some  people  than  to  oblige  them;  for  the 
better  a  man  deserves,  the  worse  they  will  speak  of  him:  as 
if  the  possessing  of  open  hatred  to  their  benefactors  were  an 
argument  that  they  lie  under  no  obligation.  Some  people  are 
so  sour  and  ill-natured,  that  they  take  it  for  an  affront  to  have 
an  obligation  or  a  return  offered  them,  to  the  discouragement 
both  of  bounty  and  of  gratitude  together.  The  not  doing, 
and  the  not  receiving,  of  benefits,  are  equally  a  mistake. 
He  that  refuses  a  new  one,  seems  to  be  offended  at  an  old 
one:  and  yet  sometimes  I  would  neither  return  a  benefit,  no, 
nor  so  much  as  receive  it,  if  I  might. 


CHAP.  XVII 

Of  Gratitude 

He  that  preaches  gratitude,  pleads  the  cause  both  of  God 
and  man;  for  without  it  we  can  neither  be  sociable  nor  re- 
ligious. There  is  a  strange  delight  in  the  very  purpose  and 
contemplation  of  it,  as  well  as  in  the  action;  when  I  can  say 
to  myself,  "I  love  my  benefactor;  what  is  there  in  this 
world  that  I  would  not  do  to  oblige  and  serve  him?"  Where 
I  have  not  the  means  of  a  requital,  the  very  meditation  of  it  is 
sufficient.  A  man  is  never  the  less  an  artist  for  not  having 
his  tools  about  him;  or  a  musician,  because  he  wants  his 
fiddle:  nor  is  he  the  less  brave  because  his  hands  are  bound; 
or  the  worse  pilot  for  being  upon  dry  ground.  If  I  have  only 
zvill  to  be  grateful,  I  am  so.  Let  me  be  upon  the  wheel,  or 
under  the  hand  of  the  executioner;  let  me  be  burnt  limb  by 
limb,  and  my  whole  body  dropping  in  the  flames,  a  good  con- 
science supports  me  in  all  extremes;  nay,  it  is  comfortable 
even  in  death  itself;  for  when  we  come  to  approach  that 
point,  what  care  do  we  take  to  summon  and  call  to  mind  all 
our  benefactors,  and  the  good  offices  they  have  done  us,  that 
we  leave  the  world  fair,  and  set  our  minds  in  order.?  Without 
gratitude,  we  can  neither  have  security,  peace,  nor  reputa- 
tion: and  it  is  not  therefore  the  less  desirable,  because  it 
draws  many  adventitious  benefits  along  with  it.  Suppose 
the  sun,  the  moon,  and  the  stars,  had  no  other  business  than 


8o  SENECA  OF  BENEFITS 

only  to  pass  over  heads,  without  any  effect  upon  our 
minds  or  bodies;  without  any  regard  to  our  health,  fruits,  or 
seasons;  a  man  could  hardly  lift  up  his  eyes  towards  the 
heavens  without  wonder  and  veneration,  to  see  so  many 
millions  of  radiant  lights,  and  to  observe  their  courses  and 
revolutions,  even  without  any  respect  to  the  common  good  of 
the  universe.  But  when  we  come  to  consider  that  Providence 
and  Nature  are  still  at  work  when  we  sleep,  with  the  admirable 
force  and  operation  of  their  influences  and  motions,  we  cannot 
then  but  acknowledge  their  ornament  to  be  the  least  part  of  their 
value;  and  that  they  are  more  to  be  esteemed  for  their  virtues 
than  for  their  splendour.  Their  main  end  and  use  is  matter 
of  life  and  necessity,  though  they  may  seem  to  us  more 
considerable  for  their  majesty  and  beauty.  And  so  it  is 
with  gratitude;  we  love  it  rather  for  secondary  ends,  than  for 
itself. 

No  man  can  be  grateful  without  contemning  those  things 

that    put    the    common    people    out    of   their 

We  must  be        wits.     We    must    go    into    banishment;      lay 

grateful  inde-        down  our  lives;    beggar  and  expose  ourselves 

spite  of  all  op-  1  •      •        r  T         1 

positions  ^^  reproaches;    nay,  it  is  otten  seen,  that  loy- 

alty suffers  the  punishment  due  to  rebellion, 
and  that  treason  receives  the  rewards  of  fidelity.  As  the  be- 
nefits of  it  are  many  and  great,  so  are  the  hazards;  which  is 
the  case  more  or  less  of  all  other  virtues:  and  it  were  hard, 
if  this,  above  the  rest,  should  be  both  painful  and  fruitless:  so 
that  though  we  may  go  currently  on  with  it  in  smooth  way, 
we  must  yet  prepare  and  resolve  (if  need  be)  to  force  our 
passage  to  it,  even  if  the  way  were  covered  with  thorns  and 
serpents;  and  fall  hack,  fall  edge,  we  must  be  grateful  still: 
grateful  for  the  virtue's  sake,  and  grateful  over  and  above 
upon  the  point  of  interest;  for  it  preserves  old  friends,  and 
gains  new  ones.  It  is  not  our  business  to  fish  for  one  benefit 
with  another;  and  by  bestowing  a  little  to  get  more;  or  to 
oblige  for  any  sort  of  expedience,  but  because  I  ought  to  do 
it,  and  because  I  love  it,  and  that  to  such  a  degree,  that  if  I 
could  not  be  grateful  without  appearing  the  contrary,  if  I 
could  not  return  a  benefit  without  being  suspected  of  doing 
an  injury;  in  despite  of  infamy  itself  I  would  yet  be  grateful. 
No  man  is  greater  in  my  esteem  than  he  that  ventures  the 
fame  to  preserve  the  conscience  of  an  honest  man;  the  one 
is  but  imaginary,  the  other  solid  and  inestimable.  I  cannot 
call  him  grateful,  who  in  the  instant  of  returning  one  benefit 


SENECA  OF  BENEFITS  8i 

has  his  eye  upon  another.  He  that  is  grateful  for  profit  or 
fear,  is  Uke  a  woman  that  is  honest  only  upon  the  score  of 
reputation. 

As  gratitude  is  a  necessary  and  a  glorious,  so  is  it  also  an 
obvious,  a  cheap,  and  an  easy  virtue:    so  ob- 
vious,  that  wheresoever   there   is   a   life   there    Gratitude  is  an 
is  a  place  for  it:    so  cheap,  that  the  covetous    °/'^°"-^'  ^ 

^  .  r  1        •  1  1      cheap,  and  an 

man   may   be   graterul  without   expense;     and    ^^^y  ^^j.^^^ 
so  easy,  that  the  sluggard  may  be  so  likewise 
without  labour.      And  yet  it  is  not  without  its  niceties  too; 
for  there  may  be   a    time,    a    place    or    occasion,    wherein    I 
ought  not  to  return  a  benefit;    nay,  wherein  I  may  better  dis- 
own it  than  deliver  it. 

Let  it  be  understood,  by  the  way,  that  it  is  one  thing  to  be 
grateful  for  a  good  office,  and  another  thing 
to  return  it:  the  good  will  is  enough  in  ^^  ^^  °"^  ^^^'^S  io 
one  case,  being  as  much  as  the  one  side  /  grateju  jor  a 
demands,  and  the  other  promises;  but  the  ther  thing  to  re- 
effect  is  requisite  in  the  other.  The  physi-  turn  it 
cian  that  has  done  his  best  is  acquitted 
though  the  patient  dies,  and  so  is  the  advocate,  though  the 
client  may  lose  his  cause.  The  general  of  an  army,  though 
the  battle  be  lost,  is  yet  worthy  of  commendation,  if  he  has 
discharged  all  the  parts  of  a  prudent  commander;  in  this 
case,  the  one  acquits  himself,  though  the  other  be  never  the 
better  for  it.  He  is  a  grateful  man  that  is  always  willing  and 
ready:  and  he  that  seeks  for  all  means  and  occasions  of  re- 
quiting a  benefit,  though  without  attaining  his  end,  does  a 
great  deal  more  than  the  man  that,  without  any  trouble, 
makes  an  immediate  return.  Suppose  my  friend  a  prisoner, 
and  that  I  have  sold  my  estate  for  his  ransom;  I  put  to  sea  in 
foul  weather,  and  upon  a  coast  that  is  pestered  with  pirates; 
my  friend  happens  to  be  redeemed  before  I  come  to  the 
place;  my  gratitude  is  as  much  to  be  esteemed  as  if  he  had 
been  a  prisoner;  and  if  I  had  been  taken  and  robbed  myself, 
it  would  still  have  been  the  same  case.  Nay,  there  is  a 
gratitude  in  the  very  countenance;  for  an  honest  man  bears 
his  conscience  in  his  face,  and  propounds  the  requital  of  a 
good  turn  in  the  very  moment  of  receiving  it;  he  is  cheerful 
and  confident;  and,  in  the  possession  of  a  true  friendship, 
delivered  from  all  anxiety.  There  is  this  difference  betwixt 
a  thankful  man  and  an  unthankful,  the  one  is  always  pleased 
in  the  good  he  has  done,  and  the  other  only  once  in  what  he 


l'{5354. 


82  SENECA  OF  BENEFITS 

has  received.  There  must  be  a  benignity  in  the  estimation 
even  of  the  smallest  offices;  and  such  a  modesty  as  appears 
to  be  obliged  in  whatsoever  it  gives.  As  it  is  indeed  a  very 
great  benefit,  the  opportunity  of  doing  a  good  office  to  a  wor- 
thy man.  He  that  attends  to  the  present,  and  remembers 
what  is  past,  shall  never  be  ungrateful.  But  who  shall  judge 
in  the  case?  for  a  man  may  be  grateful  without  making  a 
return,  and  ungrateful  with  it.  Our  best  way  is  to  help  every 
thing  by  fair  interpretation;  and  wheresoever  there  is  a 
doubt,  to  allow  it  the  most  favourable  construction;  for  he 
that  is  exceptions  at  words,  or  looks,  has  mind  to  pick  a 
quarrel.  For  my  own  part,  when  I  come  to  cast  up  my  ac- 
count, and  know  what  I  owe,  and  to  whom,  though  I  make 
my  return  sooner  to  some,  and  later  to  others,  as  occasion  or 
fortune  will  give  me  leave,  yet  I  will  be  just  to  all.  I  will 
be  grateful  to  God,  to  man,  to  those  that  have  obliged  me: 
nay,  even  to  those  that  have  obliged  my  friends.  I  am  bound 
in  honour  and  in  conscience  to  be  thankful  for  what  I  have 
received;  and  if  it  be  not  yet  full,  it  is  some  pleasure  still 
that  I  may  hope  for  more.  For  the  requital  of  a  favour  there 
must  be  virtue,  occasion,  means,  and  fortune. 

It  is  a  common  thing  to  screw  up  justice  to  the  pitch  of  an 
injury.     A    man    may    be    over-righteous;     and 
A  man  may  be       ^^y    ^ot    over-grateful   too  ?     There    is    a    mis- 
over-gratefuL  chievous   excess,    that    borders    so   close   upon 

as  wen  as  over-        .  .       ,        ,         .     .  ^•     • 

righteous  mgratitude,  that  it  is  no  easy  matter  to  distin- 

guish the  one  from  the  other:  but,  in  regard 
that  there  is  good  will  in  the  bottom  of  it,  (however  distem- 
pered, for  it  is  effectually  but  kindness  out  of  the  wits,)  we 
shall  discourse  it  under  the  title  of  Gratitude  mistaken. 


CHAP.  XVIII 

Gratitude  mistaken 

To  refuse  a  good  office,  not  so  much  because  we  do  not 
need  it,  as  because  we  would  not  be  indebted  for  it,  is  a 
kind  of  fantastical  ingratitude,  and  somewhat  akin  to  that 
nicety  of  humour,  on  the  other  side,  of  being  over-grateful; 
only  it  lies  another  way,  and  seems  to  be  the  more  pardonable 
ingratitude  of  the  two.  Some  people  take  it  for  a  great  in- 
stance of  their  good  will  to  be  still  wishing  their  benefactors 


SENECA  OF  BENEFITS  83 

such  or  such  a  mischief;  only,  forsooth,  that  they  themselves 
may  be  the  happy  instruments  of  their  release.  These  men 
do,  like  extravagant  lovers,  that  take  it  for  a  great  proof  of 
their  affection  to  wish  one  another  banished,  beggared,  or 
diseased,  that  they  might  have  the  opportunity  of  interposing 
to  their  relief.  What  difference  is  there  betwixt  such  wish- 
ing and  cursing?  such  an  affection  and  a  mortal  hatred?  The 
intent  is  good,  you  will  say,  but  this  is  a  misapplication  of 
it.  Let  such  a  one  fall  into  my  power,  or  into  the  hands  of 
his  enemies,  his  creditors,  or  the  common  people,  and  no 
mortal  be  able  to  rescue  him  but  myself:  let  his  life,  his  li- 
berty, and  his  reputation,  lie  all  at  stake,  and  no  creature  but 
myself  in  condition  to  succour  him;  and  why  all  this,  but  be- 
cause he  has  obliged  me,  and  I  would  requite  him?  If  this  be 
gratitude  to  propound  jails,  shackles,  slavery,  war,  beggary, 
to  the  man  that  you  would  requite,  what  would  you  do  where 
you  are  ungrateful?  This  way  of  proceeding,  over  and  above 
that  it  is  impious  in  itself,  is  likewise  over-hasty  and  un- 
seasonable: for  he  that  goes  too  fast  is  as  much  to  blame  as 
he  that  does  not  move  at  all,  (to  say  nothing  of  the  injustice,) 
for  if  I  had  never  been  obliged,  I  should  never  have  wished 
it.  There  are  seasons  wherein  a  benefit  is  neither  to  be  re- 
ceived nor  requited.  To  press  a  return  upon  me  when  I  do 
not  desire  it,  is  unmannerly;  but  it  is  worse  to  force  me  to 
desire  it.  How  rigorous  would  he  be  to  exact  a  requital, 
who  is  thus  eager  to  return  it?  To  wish  a  man  in  distress  that 
I  may  relieve  him,  is  first  to  wish  him  miserable;  to  wish  that  he 
may  stand  in  need  of  any  body,  is  against  him;  and  to  wish 
that  he  may  stand  in  need  of  me,  is  for  myself;  so  that  my 
business  is  not  so  much  a  charity  to  my  friend  as  the  cancel- 
ling of  a  bond;  nay,  it  is  half-way  the  wish  of  an  enemy.  It 
is  barbarous  to  wish  a  man  in  chains,  slavery,  or  want,  only 
to  bring  him  out  again:  let  me  rather  wish  him  powerful  and 
happy,  and  myself  indebted  to  him.  By  nature  we  are  prone 
to  mercy,  humanity,  compassion;  may  we  be  excited  to  be 
more  so  by  the  number  of  the  grateful!  may  their  number 
increase,  and  may  we  have  no  need  of  trying  them! 

It  is  not  for  an  honest  man  to  make  way  to  a  good  office  by 
a    crime:     as    if    a    pilot    should    pray    for    a 
tempest,    that    he    might    prove    his    skill;     or    ^^e  must  not  do 
a    general    wish    his    army    routed    that    he    ^?  ]    ^"f^^ 

°         ,  1   •  1  r  1  •  ^^^^  ?°°"  ^^3* 

may    show    himself    a    great    commander    m    come  of  it 
recovering    the    day.     It    is    throwing    a    man 


84  SENECA  OF  BENEFITS 

into  a  river  to  take  him  out  again.  It  is  an  obligation,  I  con- 
fess, to  cure  a  wound  or  a  disease;  but  to  make  that  wound 
or  disease  on  purpose  to  cure  it,  is  a  most  perverse  ingratitude. 
It  is  barbarous  even  to  an  enemy,  much  more  to  a  friend;  for 
it  is  not  so  much  to  do  him  a  kindness,  as  to  put  him  in  need 
of  it.  Of  the  two,  let  it  be  rather  a  scar  than  a  wound;  and 
yet  it  would  be  better  to  have  it  neither.  Rome  had  been 
little  beholden  to  Scipio  if  he  had  prolonged  the  Punic  war 
that  he  might  have  the  finishing  of  it  at  last,  or  to  the  Decii 
for  dying  for  their  country,  if  they  had  first  brought  it  to  the 
last  extremity  of  needing  their  devotion.  It  may  be  a  good 
contemplation,  but  it  is  a  lewd  wish.  ^Eneas  had  never  been 
surnamed  the  Pious,  if  he  had  wished  the  ruin  of  his  country, 
only  that  he  might  have  the  honour  of  taking  his  father  out 
of  the  fire.  It  is  the  scandal  of  a  physician  to  make  work, 
and  irritate  a  disease,  and  to  torment  his  patient,  for  the  re- 
putation of  his  cure.  If  a  man  should  openly  imprecate  po- 
verty, captivity,  fear,  or  danger,  upon  a  person  that  he  has 
been  obliged  to,  would  not  the  whole  world  condemn  him  for 
it.f*  And  what  is  the  difference,  but  the  one  is  only  a  private 
wish,  and  the  other  a  public  declaration  ^  Rutilius  was  told  in 
his  exile,  that,  for  his  comfort,  there  would  be  ere  long  a 
civil  war,  that  would  bring  all  the  banished  men  home  again. 
"God  forbid,"  says  he,  "for  I  had  rather  my  country 
should  blush  for  my  banishment  than  mourn  for  my  return." 
How  much  more  honourable  is  it  to  owe  cheerfully,  than  to 
pay  dishonestly?  It  is  the  wish  of  an  enemy  to  take  a  town 
that  he  may  preserve  it,  and  to  be  victorious  that  he  may  for- 
give; but  the  mercy  comes  after  the  cruelty;  beside  that  it 
is  an  injury  both  to  God  and  man;  for  the  man  must  be  first 
afflicted  by  Heaven  to  be  relieved  by  me.  So  that  we  impose 
the  cruelty  upon  God,  and  take  the  compassion  to  ourselves; 
and  at  the  best  it  is  but  a  curse  that  makes  way  for  a  blessing; 
the  bare  wish  is  an  injury;  and  if  it  does  not  take  effect,  it  is 
because  Heaven  has  not  heard  our  prayers;  or  if  they  should 
succeed,  the  fear  itself  is  a  torment;  and  it  is  much  more  de- 
sirable to  have  a  firm  and  unshaken  security.  It  is  friendly 
to  wish  it  in  your  power  to  oblige  me,  if  ever  I  chance  to 
need  it;  but  it  is  unkind  to  wish  me  miserable  that  I  may  need 
it.  How  much  more  pious  is  it,  and  humane,  to  wish  that  I 
may  never  want  the  occasion  of  obliging,  nor  the  means  of 
doing  it;  nor  ever  have  reason  to  repent  of  what  I  have 
done? 


SENECA  OF  BENEFITS  85 

CHAP.   XIX 

Of  Ingratitude 

Ingratitude  is,  of  all  crimes,  that  which  we  are  to  ac- 
count the  most  venial  in  others,  and  the  most  unpardonable 
in  ourselves.  It  is  impious  to  the  highest  degree;  for  it 
makes  us  fight  against  our  children  and  our  altars.  There 
are,  there  ever  were,  and  there  ever  will  be,  criminals  of  all 
sorts;  as  murderers,  tyrants,  thieves,  adulterers,  traitors,  rob- 
bers, and  sacrilegious  persons;  but  there  is  hardly  any  noto- 
rious crime  without  a  mixture  of  ingratitude.  It  disunites 
mankind,  and  breaks  the  very  pillars  of  society.  And  yet  so 
far  is  this  prodigious  wickedness  from  being  any  wonder  to 
us,  that  even  thankfulness  itself  were  much  the  greater  of  the 
two.  For  men  are  deterred  from  it  by  labour,  expense,  lazi- 
ness, business;  or  else  diverted  from  it  by  lust,  envy,  ambi- 
tion, pride,  levity,  rashness,  fear;  nay,  by  the  very  shame  of 
confessing  what  they  have  received.  And  the  unthankful 
man  has  nothing  to  say  for  himself  all  this  while;  for  there 
needs  neither  pains  or  fortune  for  the  discharge  of  his  duty; 
beside  the  inward  anxiety  and  torment,  when  a  man's  con- 
science makes  him  afraid  of  his  own  thoughts. 

To  speak  against  the  ungrateful  is  to  rail  against  mankind; 
for  even  those  that  complain  are  guilty;  nor 
do  I  speak  only  of  those  that  do  not  live  up  ^^J/J;""" "''" 
to  the  strict  rule  of  virtue;  but  mankind  it- 
self is  degenerated  and  lost.  We  live  unthankfully  in  this 
world,  and  we  go  struggling  and  murmuring  out  of  it;  dissat- 
isfied with  our  lot;  whereas  we  should  be  grateful  for  the 
blessings  we  have  enjoyed,  and  account  that  sufficient  which 
Providence  has  provided  for  us:  a  little  more  time  may  make 
our  lives  longer,  but  not  happier;  and  whensoever  it  is  the 
pleasure  of  God  to  call  us,  we  must  obey;  and  yet  all  this 
while  we  go  on  quarrelling  at  the  world  for  what  we  find  in 
ourselves;  and  we  are  yet  more  unthankful  to  heaven  than 
we  are  to  one  another.  What  benefit  can  be  great  now  to 
that  man  that  despises  the  bounties  of  his  Maker?  We  would 
be  as  strong  as  elephants,  as  swift  as  bucks,  as  light  as  birds; 
and  we  complain  that  we  have  not  the  sagacity  of  dogs,  the 
sight  of  eagles,  the  long  life  of  ravens,  nay,  that  we  are  not 
immortal,  and  endued  with  the  knowledge  of  things  to  come. 


86  SENECA  OF  BENEFITS 

Nay,  we  take  it  ill  that  we  are  not  gods  upon  earth;  never 
considering  the  advantages  of  our  condition,  or  the  benig- 
nity of  Providence  in  the  comforts  that  we  enjoy.  We  sub- 
due the  strongest  of  creatures,  and  overtake  the  fleetest;  we 
reclaim  the  fiercest,  and  outwit  the  craftiest.  We  are  within 
one  degree  of  heaven  itself,  and  yet  we  are  not  satisfied. 
Since  there  is  not  any  one  creature  which  we  had  rather  be, 
we  take  it  ill  that  we  cannot  draw  the  united  excellencies  of 
all  other  creatures  into  ourselves.  Why  are  we  not  rather 
thankful  to  that  goodness,  which  has  subjected  the  whole 
creation  to  our  use  and  service. 

The  principal  causes  of  ingratitude  are  pride  and  self-con- 

.  ceit,    avarice,    envy,    &c.       It    is    a    familiar 

auses  0}  mgra-     exclamation,     "It    is    true,    he    did    this    or 

that  for  me,  but  it  came  so  late  and  it  was 
so  little,  I  had  even  as  good  have  been  without  it:  if  he  had 
not  given  it  to  me,  he  must  have  given  it  to  somebody  else;  it 
was  nothing  out  of  his  own  pocket:"  nay,  we  are  so  ungrateful, 
that  he  that  gives  us  all  we  have,  if  he  leaves  any  thing  to 
himself,  we  reckon  that  he  does  us  an  injury.  It  cost  Julius 
Caesar  his  life,  the  disappointment  of  his  insatiable  com- 
panions; and  yet  he  reserved  nothing  of  all  that  he  got  to 
himself  but  the  liberty  of  disposing  of  it.  There  is  no  bene- 
fit so  large  but  malignity  will  still  lessen  it;  none  so  narrow, 
which  a  good  interpretation  will  not  enlarge.  No  man  shall 
ever  be  grateful  that  views  a  benefit  on  the  wrong  side,  or 
takes  a  good  office  by  the  wrong  handle.  The  avaricious 
man  is  naturally  ungrateful,  for  he  never  thinks  he  has 
enough,  but,  without  considering  what  he  has,  only  minds 
what  he  covets.  Some  pretend  want  of  power  to  make  a 
competent  return,  and  you  shall  find  in  others  a  kind  of 
graceless  modesty,  that  makes  a  man  ashamed  of  requiting 
an  obligation,  because  it  is  a  confession  that  he  has  received 
one. 

Not  to  return  one  good  office  for  another  is  inhuman;    but 

to  return  evil  for  good  is  diabolical.  There 
Not  to  return  are  too  many  even  of  this  sort,  who,  the  more 

good  for  good  ^^xey  owe,  the  more  they  hate.  There  is 
but  evil  for  nothing  more  dangerous  than  to  oblige  those 
good  is  dia-  people;  for  when  they  are  conscious  of  not 
bolical  paying  the  debt,  they  wish  the  creditor  out  of 

the  way.  It  is  a  mortal  hatred,  that  which 
arises  from  the  shame  of  an  abused  benefit.     When  we  are 


SENECA  OF  BENEFITS  87 

on  the  asking  side,  what  a  deal  of  cringing  there  is,  and  pro- 
fession! "Well,  I  shall  never  forget  this  favour,  it  will  be  an 
eternal  obligation  to  me."  But  within  a  while  the  note  is 
changed,  and  we  hear  no  more  words  of  it,  until,  by  little 
and  little,  it  is  all  quite  forgotten.  So  long  as  we  stand  in 
need  of  a  benefit,  there  is  nothing  dearer  to  us;  nor  any 
thing  cheaper,  when  we  have  received  it.  And  yet  a  man 
may  as  well  refuse  to  deliver  up  a  sum  of  money  that  is  left 
him  in  trust  without  a  suit,  as  not  to  return  a  good  office  with- 
out asking;  and  when  we  have  no  value  any  farther  for  the 
benefit,  we  do  commonly  care  as  little  for  the  author.  Peo- 
ple follow  their  interest:  one  man  is  grateful  for  his  conve- 
nience, and  another  man  is  ungrateful  for  the  same  reason. 

Some  are  ungrateful  to  their  own  country,  and  their  country 
no  less  ungrateful  to  others;  so  that  the  com- 
plaint of  ingratitude  reaches  all  men.  Doth  ^^^'"'^  '^^^  ""' 
not  the  son  wish  for  the  death  of  his  father,  ^'''''^''^  ^7'" 
the  husband  tor  that  ot  his  wite,  &c.  But  ungrateful  men 
who  can  look  for  gratitude  in  an  age  of  so 
many  gaping  and  craving  appetites,  where  all  people  take, 
and  none  give?  In  an  age  of  license  to  all  sorts  of  vanity  and 
wickedness,  as  lust,  gluttony,  avarice,  envy,  ambition,  sloth, 
insolence,  levity,  contumacy,  fear,  rashness,  private  discords 
and  public  evils,  extravagant  and  groundless  wishes,  vain  con- 
fidences, sickly  affections,  shameless  impieties,  rapine  author- 
ized, and  the  violation  of  all  things,  sacred  and  profane:  obli- 
gations are  pursued  with  sword  and  poison;  benefits  are  turned 
into  crimes,  and  that  blood  most  seditiously  spilt  for  which 
every  honest  man  should  expose  his  own.  Those  that  should 
be  the  preservers  of  their  country  are  the  destroyers  of  it; 
and  it  is  matter  of  dignity  to  trample  upon  the  government: 
the  sword  gives  the  law,  and  mercenaries  take  up  arms  against 
their  masters.  Among  these  turbulent  and  unruly  motions, 
what  hope  is  there  of  finding  honesty  or  good  faith,  which 
is  the  quietest  of  all  virtues.?  There  is  no  more  lively 
image  of  human  life  than  that  of  a  conquered  city;  there  is 
neither  mercy,  modesty,  nor  religion;  and  if  we  forget  our 
lives,  we  may  well  forget  our  benefits.  The  world  abounds 
with  examples  of  ungrateful  persons,  and  no  less  with  those 
of  ungrateful  governments.  Was  not  Catiline  ungrateful? 
whose  malice  aimed,  not  only  at  the  mastering  of  his  country, 
but  at  the  total  destruction  of  it,  by  calling  in  an  inveterate 
and  vindictive  enemy  from  beyond  the  Alps,  to  wreck  their 


88  SENECA  OF  BENEFITS 

long-thirsted-for  revenge,  and  to  sacrifice  the  lives  of  as  many 
noble  Romans  as  might  serve  to  answer  and  appease  the  ghosts 
of  the  slaughtered  Gauls?  Was  not  Marius  ungrateful,  that, 
from  a  common  soldier,  being  raised  up  to  a  consul,  not  only 
gave  the  word  for  civil  bloodshed  and  massacres,  but  was  him- 
self the  sign  for  the  execution;  and  every  man  he  met  in  the 
streets,  to  whom  he  did  not  stretch  out  his  right  hand,  was 
murdered?  And  was  not  Sylla  ungrateful  too?  that  when  he 
had  waded  up  to  the  gates  in  human  blood,  carried  the  out- 
rage into  the  city,  and  there  most  barbarously  cut  two  entire 
legions  to  pieces  in  a  corner,  not  only  after  the  victory,  but 
most  perfidiously  after  quarter  given  them?  Good  God!  that 
ever  any  man  should  not  only  escape  with  impunity,  but  re- 
ceive a  reward  for  so  horrid  a  villany!  Was  not  Pompey  un- 
grateful too?  who,  after  three  consul-ships,  three  triumphs,  and 
so  many  honours,  usurped  before  his  time,  split  the  common- 
wealth into  three  parts,  and  brought  it  to  such  a  pass,  that 
there  was  no  hope  of  safety  but  by  slavery  only;  forsooth, 
to  abate  the  envy  of  his  power,  he  took  other  partners  with 
him  into  the  government,  as  if  that  which  was  not  lawful  for 
any  one  might  have  been  allowable  for  more;  dividing  and 
distributing  the  provinces,  and  breaking  all  into  a  triumvirate, 
reserving  still  two  parts  of  the  three  in  his  own  family.  And 
was  not  Caesar  ungrateful  also,  though  to  give  him  his  due,  he 
was  a  man  of  his  word;  merciful  in  his  victories,  and  never 
killed  any  man  but  with  his  sword  in  his  hand  ?  Let  us  there- 
fore forgive  one  another.  Only  one  word  more  now  for  the 
shame  of  ungrateful  governments.  Was  not  Camillus  banish- 
ed? Scipio  dismissed?  and  Cicero  exiled  and  plundered ?  But, 
what  is  all  this  to  those  who  are  so  mad,  as  to  dispute  even  the 
goodness  of  Heaven,  which  gives  us  all,  and  expects  nothing 
again,  but  continues  giving  to  the  most  unthankful  and  com- 
plaining? 


CHAP.  XX 

There  can  be  no  law  against  ingratitude 

Ingratitude  is  so  dangerous  to  itself,  and  so  detestable  to 
other  people,  that  nature,  one  would  think,  had  sufficiently 
provided    against   it,   without   need   of  any   other  law.     For 


SENECA  OF  BENEFITS  89 

every  ungrateful  man  is  his  own  enemy,  and  it  seems  super- 
fluous to  compel  a  man  to  be  kind  to  himself,  and  to  follow 
his  own  inclinations.  This,  of  all  wickedness  imaginable,  is 
certainly  the  vice  which  does  the  most  divide  and  distract 
human  nature.  Without  the  exercise  and  the  commerce  of 
mutual  offices,  we  can  be  neither  happy  nor  safe;  for  it  is 
only  society  that  secures  us:  take  us  one  by  one,  and  we  are 
a  prey  even  to  brutes  as  well  as  to  one  another;  Nature  has 
brought  us  into  the  world  naked  and  unarmed;  we  have 
not  the  teeth  or  the  paws  of  lions  or  bears  to  make  ourselves 
terrible;  but  by  the  two  blessings  of  reason  and  union,  we 
secure  and  defend  ourselves  against  violence  and  fortune. 
This  it  is  that  makes  man  the  master  of  all  other  creatures, 
who  otherwise  were  scarce  a  match  for  the  weakest  of  them. 
This  it  is  that  comforts  us  in  sickness,  in  age,  in  misery,  in 
pains,  and  in  the  worst  of  calamities.  Take  away  this  com- 
bination, and  mankind  is  dissociated,  and  falls  to  pieces.  It 
is  true,  that  there  is  no  law  established  against  this  abominable 
vice:  but  we  cannot  say  yet  that  it  escapes  unpunished,  for  a 
public  hatred  is  certainly  the  greatest  of  all  penalties;  over 
and  above  that  we  lose  the  most  valuable  blessing  of  life,  in 
the  not  bestowing  and  receiving  of  benefits.  If  ingratitude 
were  to  be  punished  by  a  law,  it  would  discredit  the  obli- 
gation; for  a  benefit  is  to  be  given,  not  lent:  and  if  we  have 
no  return  at  all,  there  is  no  just  cause  of  complaint:  for  grati- 
tude were  no  virtue,  if  there  were  any  danger  in  being 
ungrateful.  There  are  halters,  I  know,  hooks  and  gibbets, 
provided  for  homicide,  poison,  sacrilege,  and  rebellion;  but 
ingratitude  (here  upon  earth)  is  only  punished  in  the  schools; 
all  farther  pains  and  inflictions  being  wholly  remitted  to 
divine  justice.  And,  if  a  man  may  judge  of  the  conscience 
by  the  countenance,  the  ungrateful  man  is  never  without  a 
canker  at  his  heart;  his  mind  and  aspect  is  sad  and  soli- 
citous; whereas  the  other  is  always  cheerful  and  serene. 

As  there  are  no  laws  extant  against  ingratitude,  so  is  it 
utterly     impossible     to     contrive     any,     that 
in  all     circumstances     shall     reach     it.     If    it    There  is  not, 
were      actionable,      there      would      not      be    "^"'^^5  ^""^  ^'' 

,       .  ,  ,     ,  ,  ,  any  law  against 

courts    enough    m    the  whole    world    to    try    ingratitude 
the    causes    in.     There    can    be    no    setting    a 
day  for  the  requiting  of  benefits  as  for  the  payment  of  money, 
nor  any  estimate  upon  the  benefits  themselves;   but  the  whole 
matter   rests  in    the   conscience   of  both    parties:    and   then 


90  SENECA  OF  BENEFITS 

there  are  so  many  degrees  of  it,  that  the  same  rule  will 
never  serve  all.  Beside  that,  to  proportion  it  as  the  benefit 
is  greater  and  less,  will  be  both  impracticable  and  without  rea- 
son. One  good  turn  saves  my  life;  another,  my  freedom, 
or  peradventure  my  very  soul.  How  shall  any  law  now  suit 
a  punishment  to  an  ingratitude  under  these  differing  degrees.? 
It  must  not  be  said  in  benefits  as  in  bonds,  Pay  what  you  owe. 
How  shall  a  man  pay  life,  health,  credit,  security,  in  kind? 
There  can  be  no  set  rule  to  bound  that  infinite  variety  of 
cases,  which  are  more  properly  the  subject  of  humanity  and 
religion  than  of  law  and  public  justice.  There  would  be  dis- 
putes also  about  the  benefit  itself,  which  must  totally  depend 
upon  the  courtesy  of  the  judge;  for  no  law  imaginable  can 
set  it  forth.  One  man  gives  me  an  estate;  another  only  lends 
me  a  sword,  and  that  sword  preserves  my  life.  Nay,  the 
very  same  thing,  several  ways  done,  changes  the  quality  of 
the  obligation.  A  word,  a  tone,  a  look,  makes  a  great  altera- 
tion in  the  case.  How  shall  we  judge  then,  and  determine  a 
matter  which  does  not  depend  upon  the  fact  itself,  but  upon 
the  force  and  intention  of  it?  Some  things  are  reputed  bene- 
fits, not  for  their  value,  but  because  we  desire  them:  and 
there  are  offices  of  as  much  greater  value,  that  we  do  not  rec- 
kon upon  at  all.  If  ingratitude  were  liable  to  a  law,  we  must 
never  give  but  before  witnesses,  which  would  overthrow  the 
dignity  of  the  benefit:  and  then  the  punishment  must  either 
be  equal  where  the  crimes  are  unequal,  or  else  it  must  be 
unrighteous;  so  that  blood  must  answer  for  blood.  He  that 
is  ungrateful  for  my  saving  his  life  must  forfeit  his  own.  And 
what  can  be  more  inhuman  than  that  benefits  should  con- 
clude in  sanguinary  events?  A  man  saves  my  life,  and  I  am 
ungrateful  for  it.  Shall  I  be  punished  in  my  purse?  that  is 
too  little;  if  it  be  less  than  the  benefit,  it  is  unjust,  and  it 
must  be  capital  to  be  made  equal  to  it.  There  are,  moreover, 
certain  privileges  granted  to  parents,  that  can  never  be  re- 
duced to  a  common  rule.  Their  injuries  may  be  cognizable, 
but  not  their  benefits.  The  diversity  of  cases  is  too  large  and 
intricate  to  be  brought  within  the  prospect  of  a  law:  so  that 
it  is  much  more  equitable  to  punish  none  than  to  punish  all 
alike.  What  if  a  man  follows  a  good  office  with  an  injury; 
whether  or  no  shall  this  quit  scores?  or  who  shall  compare 
them,  and  weigh  the  one  against  the  other?  There  is  another 
thing  yet  which  perhaps  we  do  not  dream  of:  not  one  man 
upon  the  face  of  the  earth  would  escape,  and  yet  every  man 


SENECA  OF   BENEFITS  91 

would  expect  to  be  his  judge.  Once  again,  we  are  all  of  us 
ungrateful;  and  the  number  does  not  only  take  away  the 
shame,  but  gives  authority  and  protection  to  the  wick- 
edness. 

It  is  thought  reasonable  by  some,  that  there  should  be  a 
law  against  ingratitude;  for,  say  they,  it  is  common  for  one 
city  to  upbraid  another,  and  to  claim  that  of  posterity  which 
was  bestowed  upon  their  ancestors;  but  this  is  only  clamour 
without  reason.  It  is  objected  by  others,  as  a  discouragement 
to  good  offices,  if  men  shall  not  be  made  answerable  for 
them;  but  I  say,  on  the  other  side,  that  no  man  would  accept 
of  a  benefit  upon  those  terms.  He  that  gives  is  prompted  to  it 
by  a  goodness  of  mind,  and  the  generosity  of  the  action  is 
lessened  by  the  caution:  for  it  is  his  desire  that  the  receiver 
should  please  himself,  and  owe  no  more  than  he  thinks  fit. 
But  what  if  this  might  occasion  fewer  benefits,  so  long  as  they 
would  be  franker?  nor  is  there  any  hurt  in  putting  a  check 
upon  rashness  and  profusion.  In  answer  to  this;  men  will 
be  careful  enough  whom  they  oblige  without  a  law;  nor  is  it 
possible  for  a  judge  ever  to  set  us  right  in  it;  or  indeed,  any 
thing  else,  but  the  faith  of  the  receiver.  The  honour  of  a 
benefit  is  this  way  preserved,  which  is  otherwise  profaned, 
when  it  comes  to  be  mercenary,  and  made  matter  of  con- 
tention. We  are  even  froward  enough  of  ourselves  to  wran- 
gle without  unnecessary  provocations.  It  would  be  well,  I 
think,  if  monies  might  pass  upon  the  same  conditions  with 
other  benefits,  and  the  payment  remitted  to  the  conscience, 
without  formalizing  upon  bills  and  securities:  but  human 
wisdom  has  rather  advised  with  convenience  than  virtue; 
and  chosen  rather  to  force  honesty  than  expect  it.  For  every 
paltry  sum  of  money  there  must  be  bonds,  witnesses,  counter- 
parts, powers,  &c.  which  is  no  other  than  a  shameful  con- 
fession of  fraud  and  wickedness,  when  more  credit  is  given 
to  our  seals  than  to  our  minds;  and  caution  taken  lest  he  that 
has  received  the  money  should  deny  it.  Were  it  not  better 
now  to  be  deceived  by  some  than  to  suspect  all:  what  is  the 
difference,  at  this  rate,  betwixt  the  benefactor  and  an  usurer, 
save  only  that  in  the  benefactor's  case  there  is  no  body  stands 
bound .? 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE. 

CHAP.  I, 

Of  a  happy  life,  and  wherein  it  eonmsts. 

J.  HERE  is  not  any  thing  in  this  world,  perhaps,  that  is  more 
talked  of,  and  less  understood,  than  the  business  of  a  happy 
lift.  It  is  every  man's  wbh  and  design ;  and  yet  not  one  of  "a 
thousand  that  knows  wherein  that  happiness  consists.  We 
live,  however,  in  a  blind  and  eager  pursuit  of  it.;  and  the 
more  haste  we  make  in  a  wrong  way,  the  farther  we  are  from 
our  journey's  end.  Let  us  therefore,  JiTst,  consider  "  what  it 
Is  we  should  be  at;"  and,  secondly,  "which  is  the  readiest 
■way  to  compass  it."'  If  we  be  right,  we  shall  fihd  every  day 
bow  much  we  improve ;  but  if  we  either  follow  the  cry,  or 
the  track,  of  people  that  are  out  of  the  way,  we  must  expect 
to  be  misled,  and  to  continue  our  days  in  wandering  and  error. 
Wherefore,  it  highly  concerns  us  to  take  along  with  us  a  skil- 
ful guide;  for  it  is  not  in  this,  as  in  other  voyages,  where  t!ie 
highway  brings  us  to  our  place  of  repose  ;  or  if  a  inan  should 
happen  to  be  out,  where  the  inhabitants  might  set  him  right 
again :  but  on  the  contrary,  the  beaten  road  is  here  the  most 
dangerous,  and  the  people,  instead  of  helping  us,  misguide  us. 
X>et  us  not  therefore  follow,  like  beasts,  but  rather  govern  our- 
selves by  reason,  than  by  example.  It  fares  With  us  in  human 
life  as  in  a  routed  army;  one  stumbles  first,  and  thei*  another 
falls  upon  him,  and  so  they  follow,  one  upon  t'.(3  neck  of 
another,  until  the  whole  field  comes  to  be  but  one  heap  of 
miscarriages.  And  the  mischief  is,  "  that  the  number  of 
the  multitude  Carries  it  against  truth  and  justice;"  so  that  we 
must  leave  the  crowd  if  we  would  be  happy :  for  the  ques- 
tion of  ahappy  life  is  not  to  be  decided  by  vote :  nay,  so  far 
from  it,  that  plurality  of  voices  is  still  an  argument  of  the 
%vrong ;  the  common  people  iind  it  easier  to  believe  than  to 
Judge,  aad  content  themselves  -with  what  is  usual.-  uever  ex 


X 


SENECA  OF  A   HAPPY  LIFE 

CHAP.   I 

Of  a  happy  life,  and  wherein  it  consists 


HERE  is  not  any  thing  in  this  world,  perhaps,  that  is  more 
talked  of,  and  less  understood,  than  the  business  of  a  happy 
life.  It  is  every  man's  wish  and  design;  and  yet  not  one  of  a 
thousand  that  knows  wherein  that  happiness  consists.  We 
live,  however,  in  a  blind  and  eager  pursuit  of  it;  and  the 
more  haste  we  make  in  a  wrong  way,  the  farther  we  are  from 
our  journey's  end.  Let  us  therefore,  first,  consider  "what  it 
is  we  should  be  at;"  and,  secondly,  "which  is  the  readiest 
way  to  compass  it."  If  we  be  right,  we  shall  find  every  day 
how  much  we  improve;  but  if  we  either  follow  the  cry,  or 
the  track,  of  people  that  are  out  of  the  way,  we  must  expect 
to  be  misled,  and  to  continue  our  days  in  wandering  and  error. 
Wherefore,  it  highly  concerns  us  to  take  along  with  us  a  skil- 
ful guide;  for  it  is  not  in  this,  as  in  other  voyages,  where  the 
highway  brings  us  to  our  place  of  repose;  or  if  a  man  should 
happen  to  be  out,  where  the  inhabitants  might  set  him  right 
again:  but  on  the  contrary,  the  beaten  road  is  here  the  most 
dangerous,  and  the  people,  instead  of  helping  us,  misguide  us. 
Let  us  not  therefore  follow,  like  beasts,  but  rather  govern  our- 
selves by  reason,  than  by  example.  It  fares  with  us  in  human 
life  as  in  a  routed  army;  one  stumbles  first,  and  then  another 
falls  upon  him,  and  so  they  follow,  one  upon  the  neck  of 
another,  until  the  whole  field  comes  to  be  but  one  heap  of 
miscarriages.  And  the  mischief  is,  "that  the  number  of 
the  multitude  carries  it  against  truth  and  justice;"  so  that  we 
must  leave  the  crowd  if  we  would  be  happy:  for  the  ques- 
tion of  a  happy  life  is  not  to  be  decided  by  vote:  nay,  so  far 
from  it,  that  plurality  of  voices  is  still  an  argument  of  the 
wrong;  the  common  people  find  it  easier  to  believe  than  to 
judge,  and  content  themselves  with  what  is  usual,  never  ex- 


94  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

amining  whether  it  be  good  or  not.     By  the  common  people 

is  intended  the  man  of  title  as  well  as  the  clouted  shoe:    for  I 

do  not  distinguish  them  by  the  eye,  but  by  the  mind,  which  is 

the   proper  judge   of  the   man.        Worldly   felicity,    I   know, 

makes  the  head  giddy;    but  if  ever  a  man  comes  to  himself 

again,  he  will  confess,  that  "whatsoever  he  has  done,  he  wishes 

undone;"    and  that  "the  things  he  feared  were  better  than 

those  he  prayed  for." 

The  true  felicity  of  life  is  to  be  free  from  perturbations;   to 

-       ,       .  understand  our  duties  toward  God   and  man: 

jTue  happiness  .  ,  .  , 

to    enjoy    the    present    without    any    anxious 

dependence  upon  the  future.  Not  to  amuse  ourselves  with 
either  hopes  or  fears,  but  to  rest  satisfied  with  what  we  have, 
which  is  abundantly  sufficient;  for  he  that  is  so,  wants  no- 
thing. The  great  blessings  of  mankind  are  within  us,  and 
within  our  reach;  but  we  shut  our  eyes,  and,  like  people  in 
the  dark,  we  fall  foul  upon  the  very  thing  we  search  for  with- 
out finding  it.  "Tranquillity  is  a  certain  equality  of  mind, 
which  no  condition  of  fortune  can  either  exalt  or  depress." 
Nothing  can  make  it  less:  for  it  is  the  state  of  human  per- 
fection: it  raises  us  as  high  as  we  can  go;  and  makes  every 
man  his  own  supporter;  whereas  he  that  is  borne  up  by  any 
thing  else  may  fall.  He  that  judges  aright,  and  perseveres  in 
it,  enjoys  a  perpetual  calm:  he  takes  a  true  prospect  of  things; 
he  observes  an  order,  measure,  a  decorum  in  all  his  actions; 
he  has  a  benevolence  in  his  nature;  he  squares  his  life  accord- 
ing to  reason;  and  draws  to  himself  love  and  admiration. 
Without  a  certain  and  an  unchangeable  judgment,  all  the  rest 
is  but  fluctuation:  but  "he  that  always  wills  and  nills  the 
same  thing,  is  undoubtedly  in  the  right."  Liberty  and  serenity 
of  mind  must  necessarily  ensue  upon  the  mastering  of  those 
things  which  either  allure  or  affright  us;  when  instead  of 
those  flashy  pleasures,  (which  even  at  the  best  are  both  vain 
and  hurtful  together,)  we  shall  find  ourselves  possessed  of  joys 
transporting  and  everlasting.  It  must  be  a  sound  mind  that 
makes  a  happy  man;  there  must  be  a  constancy  in  all  con- 
ditions, a  care  for  the  things  of  this  world,  but  without  trou- 
ble; and  such  an  indiff"erency  for  the  bounties  of  fortune, 
that  either  with  them,  or  without  them,  we  may  live  con- 
tentedly. There  must  be  neither  lamentation,  nor  quarrel- 
ing, nor  sloth,  nor  fear;  for  it  makes  a  discord  in  a  man's 
life.  "He  that  fears,  serves."  The  joy  of  a  wise  man  stands 
firm  without  interruption;    in  all  places,  at  all  times,  and  in 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  95 

all  conditions,  his  thoughts  are  cheerful  and  quiet.  As  it 
never  came  in  to  him  from  without,  so  it  will  never  leave 
him;  but  it  is  born  within  him,  and  inseparable  from  him. 
It  is  a  solicitous  life  that  is  egged  on  with  the  hope  of  any 
thing,  though  never  so  open  and  easy,  nay,  though  a  man 
should  never  suJBTer  any  sort  of  disappointment.  I  do  not 
speak  this  either  as  a  bar  to  the  fair  enjoyment  of  lawful  plea- 
sures, or  to  the  gentle  flatteries  of  reasonable  expectations: 
but,  on  the  contrary,  I  would  have  men  to  be  always  in  good 
humour,  provided  that  it  arises  from  their  own  souls,  and  be 
cherished  in  their  own  breasts.  Other  delights  are  trivial; 
they  may  smooth  the  brow,  but  they  do  not  fill  and  affect  the 
heart.  "True  joy  is  a  serene  and  sober  motion;"  and  they 
are  miserably  out  that  take  laughing  for  rejoicing.  The  seat 
of  it  is  within,  and  there  is  no  cheerfulness  like  the  resolution 
of  a  brave  mind,  that  has  fortune  under  his  feet.  He  that  can 
look  death  in  the  face,  and  bid  it  welcome;  open  his  door  to 
poverty,  and  bridle  his  appetites;  this  is  the  man  whom  Pro- 
vidence has  established  in  the  possession  of  inviolable  de- 
lights. The  pleasures  of  the  vulgar  are  ungrounded,  thin,  and 
superficial;  but  the  other  are  solid  and  eternal.  As  the  body 
itself  is  rather  a  necessary  thing,  than  a  great;  so  the  comforts 
of  it  are  but  temporary  and  vain;  beside  that,  without  extra- 
ordinary moderation,  their  end  is  only  pain  and  repentance; 
whereas  a  peaceful  conscience,  honest  thoughts,  virtuous  ac- 
tions, and  an  indiflFerence  for  casual  events,  are  blessings  with- 
out end,  satiety,  or  measure.  This  consummated  state  of 
felicity  is  only  a  submission  to  the  dictate  of  right  nature; 
"The  foundation  of  it  is  wisdom  and  virtue;  the  knowledge 
of  what  we  ought  to  do,  and  the  conformity  of  the  will  to 
that  knowledge." 


CHAP.   II 

Human  happiness  is  founded  upon  wisdom  and 
virtue ;  and  first,  of  wisdom 

Taking  for  granted  that  human  hap-^iness  is  founded  upon 
wisdom  and  virtue,  we  shall  treat  of  these  two  points  in  order 
as  they  lie:   and,  first,  of  wisdom:   not  in  the  latitude  of  its  va- 


if 


96  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

rious  operations,  but  as  it  has  only  a  regard  to  good  life,  and 
the  happiness  of  mankind. 

Wisdom  is  a  right  understanding,  a  faculty  of  discerning 

good    from   evil;    what   is   to   be   chosen,    and 
Wisdom,  what        ^^^^    rejected;     a    judgment    grounded    upon 

the  value  of  things,  and  not  the  common 
opinion  of  them;  an  equality  of  force,  and  a  strength  of  reso- 
lution. It  sets  a  watch  over  our  words  and  deeds,  it  takes  us 
up  with  the  contemplation  of  the  works  of  nature,  and  makes 
us  invincible  by  either  good  or  evil  fortune.  It  is  large  and 
spacious,  and  requires  a  great  deal  of  room  to  work  in;  it 
ransacks  heaven  and  earth;  it  has  for  its  object  things  past 
and  to  come,  transitory  and  eternal.  It  examines  all  the  cir- 
cumstances of  time;  "what  it  is,  when  it  began,  and  how 
long  it  will  continue:  and  so  for  the  mind;  whence  it  came; 
what  it  is;  when  it  begins;  how  long  it  lasts;  whether  or  not 
it  passes  from  one  form  to  another,  or  serves  only  one,  and 
wanders  when  it  leaves  us;  whether  it  abides  in  a  state  of 
separation,  and  what  the  action  of  it;  what  use  it  makes  of 
its  liberty;  whether  or  not  it  retains  the  memory  of  things 
past,  and  comes  to  the  knowledge  of  itself."  It  is  the  habit 
of  a  perfect  mind,  and  the  perfection  of  humanity,  raised  as 
high  as  Nature  can  carry  it.  It  differs  from  philosophy,  as 
avarice  and  money;  the  one  desires,  and  the  other  is  desired; 
the  one  is  the  effect  and  the  reward  of  the  other.  To  be  wise 
is  the  use  of  wisdom,  as  seeing  is  the  use  of  eyes,  and  well 
speaking  the  use  of  eloquence.  He  that  is  perfectly  wise  is 
perfectly  happy;  nay,  the  very  beginning  of  wisdom  makes 
life  easy  to  us.  Neither  is  it  enough  to  know  this,  unless  we 
print  it  in  our  minds  by  daily  meditation,  and  so  bring  a  good 
will  to  a  good  habit.  And  we  must  practise  what  we  preach: 
for  philosophy  is  not  a  subject  for  popular  ostentation;  nor 
■"''  f  does  it  rest  in  words,  but  in  things.  It  is  not  an  entertainment 
taken  up  for  delight,  or  to  give  a  taste  to  our  leisure;  but  it 
fashions  the  mind,  governs  our  actions,  tells  us  what  we  are 
to  do,  and  what  not.  It  sits  at  the  helm,  and  guides  us  through 
all  hazards;  nay,  we  cannot  be  safe  without  it,  for  every  hour 
gives  us  occasion  to  make  use  of  it.  It  informs  us  in  all  the 
duties  of  life,  piety  to  our  parents,  faith  to  our  friends,  charity 
to  the  miserable,  judgment  in  counsel;  it  gives  us  peace  by 
fearing  nothing,  and  riches  by  coveting  nothing. 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  97 

There  is  no  condition  of  life  that  excludes  a  wise  man  from 

discharging  his  duty.     If  his  fortune  be  good, 

he  tempers  it;  if  bad,  he  masters  it;    if  he  has    ^  "'"f  ^^^  . 
,  -ii  .        ,  .         .  .  ,  does  his  duty  in 

an  estate,  he  will  exercise  his  virtue  in  pien-  ^^  conditions 
ty;  if  none,  in  poverty:  if  he  cannot  do  it 
in  his  country,  he  will  do  it  in  banishment;  if  he  has  no  com- 
mand, he  will  do  the  office  of  a  common  soldier.  Some  peo- 
ple have  the  skill  of  reclaiming  the  fiercest  of  beasts;  they 
will  make  a  lion  embrace  his  keeper,  a  tiger  kiss  him,  and  an 
elephant  kneel  to  him.  This  is  the  case  of  a  wise  man  in  the 
extremest  difficulties;  let  them  be  never  so  terrible  in  them- 
selves, when  they  come  to  him  once,  they  are  perfectly  tame. 
They  that  ascribe  the  invention  of  tillage,  architecture,  navi- 
gation, &c.  to  wise  men,  may  perchance  be  in  the  right,  that 
they  were  invented  by  wise  men;  but  they  were  not  invented 
by  wise  men,  as  wise  men;  for  wisdom  does  not  teach  our  fin- 
gers, but  our  minds:  fiddling  and  dancing,  arms  and  fortifica- 
tions, were  the  works  of  luxury  and  discord;  but  wisdom  in- 
structs us  in  the  way  of  nature,  and  in  the  arts  of  unity  and 
concord,  not  in  the  instruments,  but  in  the  government  of  life; 
not  to  make  us  live  only,  but  to  live  happily.  She  teaches  us 
what  things  are  good,  what  evil,  and  what  only  appear  so; 
and  to  distinguish  betwixt  true  greatness  and  tumour.  She 
clears  our  minds  of  dross  and  vanity;  she  raises  up  our  thoughts 
to  heaven,  and  carries  them  down  to  hell:  she  discourses  of 
the  nature  of  the  soul,  the  powers  and  faculties  of  it;  the  first 
principles  of  things;  the  order  of  Providence:  she  exalts  us 
from  things  corporeal  to  things  incorporeal,  and  retrieves  the 
truth  of  all:  she  searches  nature,  gives  laws  to  life;  and  tells 
us,  "That  it  is  not  enough  to  know  God,  unless  we  obey  him:" 
she  looks  upon  all  accidents  as  acts  of  Providence:  sets  a  true 
value  upon  things;  delivers  us  from  false  opinions,  and  con- 
demns all  pleasures  that  are  attended  with  repentance.  She 
allows  nothing  to  be  good  that  will  not  be  so  for  ever;  no 
man  to  be  happy  but  he  that  needs  no  other  happiness  than 
what  he  has  within  himself;  no  man  to  be  great  or  powerful, 
that  is  not  master  of  himself.  This  is  the  felicity  of  human 
life;  a  felicity  that  can  neither  be  corrupted  nor  extinguish- 
ed: it  inquires  into  the  nature  of  the  heavens,  the  influence 
of  the  stars;  how  far  they  operate  upon  our  minds  and 
bodies:  which  thoughts,  though  they  do  not  form  our  man- 
ners, they  do  yet  raise  and  dispose  us  for  glorious  things. 

It  is  agreed  upon  at  all  hands,  "That  right  reason  is  the 


98  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

perfection  of  human  nature,"  and  wisdom  only 
Right  reason  is  the  dictate  of  it.  The  greatness  that  arises  from 
the  perfection  j^  j^  g^jj^  ^^^  unmoveable,  the  resolutions  of 
of  human  na-  .    ,  ^     •  r  11  i 

^^^g  Wisdom    bemg    tree,    absolute,    and    constant; 

whereas  folly  is  never  long  pleased  with  the 
same  thing,  but  still  shifting  of  counsels  and  sick  of  itself. 
There  can  be  no  happiness  without  constancy  and  prudence; 
for  a  wise  man  is  to  write  without  a  blot;  and  what  he  likes 
once  he  approves  for  ever:  he  admits  of  nothing  that  is  either 
evil  or  slippery;  but  marches  without  staggering  or  stum- 
bling, and  is  never  surprised:  he  lives  always  true  and 
steady  to  himself,  and  whatsoever  befals  him,  this  great  ar- 
tificer of  both  fortunes  turns  to  advantage,  he  that  demurs 
and  hesitates  is  not  yet  composed:  but  wheresoever  virtue 
interposes  upon  the  main,  there  must  be  concord  and  con- 
sent in  the  parts:  for  all  virtues  are  in  agreement  as  well  as 
all  vices  are  at  variance.  A  wise  man,  in  what  condition 
soever  he  is,  will  be  still  happy;  for  he  subjects  all  things  to 
himself,  because  he  submits  himself  to  reason,  and  governs' 
his  actions  by  counsel,  not  by  passion.  He  is  not  moved  with 
the  utmost  violences  of  fortune,  nor  with  the  extremities  of 
fire  and  sword;  whereas  a  fool  is  afraid  of  his  own  shadow, 
and  surprised  at  ill  accidents,  as  if  they  were  all  levelled  at 
him.  He  does  nothing  unwillingly:  for  whatever  he  finds 
necessary,  he  makes  it  his  choice.  He  propounds  to  himself 
the  certain  scope  and  end  of  human  life;  he  follows  that 
which  conduces  to  it,  and  avoids  that  which  hinders  it.  He 
is  content  with  his  lot,  whatever  it  be,  without  wishing  what 
he  has  not;  though  of  the  two,  he  had  rather  abound  than 
want.  The  great  business  of  his  life,  like  that  of  nature,  is 
performed  without  tumult  or  noise:  He  neither  fears  dan- 
ger, nor  provokes  it;  but,  it  is  his  caution,  not  any  want  of 
courage;  for  captivity,  wounds,  and  chains,  he  only  looks 
upon  as  false  and  lymphatical  terrors.  He  does  not  pretend 
to  go  through  with  whatever  he  undertakes;  but  to  do  that 
well  which  he  does.  Arts  are  but  the  servants,  wisdom  com- 
mands; and  where  the  matter  fails,  it  is  none  of  the  work- 
man's fault.  He  is  cautelous  in  doubtful  cases,  in  prosperity 
temperate,  and  resolute  in  adversity;  still  making  the  best  of 
every  condition,  and  improving  all  occasions  to  make  them 
serviceable  to  his  fate.  Some  accidents  there  are,  which  I 
confess  may  affect  him,  but  not  overthrow  him;  as  bodily 
pains,  loss  of  children  and  friends;    the  ruin  and  desolation 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  99 

of  a  man's  country.  One  must  be  made  of  stone,  or  iron, 
not  to  be  sensible  of  these  calamities;  and  beside,  it  were  no 
virtue  to  bear  them,  if  a  body  did  not  feel  them. 

There  are  three  degrees  of  proficients  in  the  school  of  wis- 
dom.    The  first,   are   those   that   come   within 
sight  of  it,  but  not  up  to  it;    they  have  learn-    "Three  degrees  ^ 
ed  what  they  ought  to  do,  but  they  have  not    J^-^q^ 
put    their    knowledge    in    practice:     they    are 
past  the  hazard  of  a  relapse,  but  they  have  still  the  grudges 
of  a  disease,  though  they  are  out  of  the  danger  of  it.     By  a 
disease,  I  do  understand  an  obstinacy  in  evil,  or  an  ill  habit, 
that  makes  us  over-eager  upon  things,  which  are  either  not 
much  to  be  desired,  or  not  at  all.     A  second  sort,  are  those 
that  have  subjected  their  appetites  for  a  season,  but  are  yet  in 
fear  of  falling  back.     A  third  sort  are  those  that  are  clear  of 
many  vices,  but  not  of  all.     They  are  not  covetous,  but  per- 
haps they  are  choleric;    nor  lustful,  but  perchance  ambitious; 
they  are  firm  enough  in  some  cases,  but  weak  in  others;   there 
are  many  that  despise  death,  and  yet  shrink  at  pain.     There 
are  diversities  in  wise  men,  but  no  inequalities;    one  is  more 
affable,  another  more  ready,  a  third  a  better  speaker:    but  the 
felicity  of  them  all  is  equal.     It  is  in  this,  as  in  heavenly  bo- 
dies; there  is  a  certain  state  in  greatness. 

In  civil  and  domestic  affairs,   a  wise  man  may  stand  in 
need    of   counsel,    as    of   a    physician,    an    ad- 
vocate,   a    solicitor;     but    in    greater   matters,        ^"'^  ^^"  ^" 

111.  r        •  •  1         •  some  cases  may 

the    blessmg    of  wise    men    rests    m    the   joy    need  counsel 
they  take  in  the  communication  of  their  vir- 
tues.    If  there  were  nothing  else  in  it,  a  man  would  apply 
himself  to  wisdom,  because  it  settles  him  in  a  perpetual  tran- 
quillity of  mind. 


CHAP.   Ill 

There  can  he  no  happiness  without  virtue 

Virtue  is  that  perfect  good,  which  is  the  compliment  of  a 
happy  life;  the  only  immortal  thing  that  belongs  to  mor- 
tality: it  is  the  knowledge  both  of  others  and  itself;  it  is  an 
invincible  greatness  of  mind  not  to  be  elevated  or  dejected 
with  good  or  ill  fortune.     It  is  sociable  and  gentle,  free,  steady. 


lOO  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

and  fearless;  content  within  itself;  full  of  inexhaustible  de- 
lights; and  it  is  valued  for  itself.  One  may  be  a  good  physi- 
cian, a  good  governor,  a  good  grammarian,  without  being  a 
good  man;  so  that  all  things  from  without  are  only  acces- 
saries: for  the  seat  of  it  is  a  pure  and  holy  mind.  It  consists 
in  a  congruity  of  actions  which  we  can  never  expect  so  long 
as  we  are  distracted  by  our  passions.  Not  but  that  a  man 
may  be  allowed  to  change  colour  and  countenance,  and  suffer 
such  impressions  as  are  properly  a  kind  of  natural  force  upon 
the  body,  and  not  under  the  dominion  of  the  mind:  but  all 
this  while  I  will  have  his  judgment  firm,  and  he  shall  act 
steadily  and  boldly,  without  wavering  betwixt  the  motions  of 
his  body  and  those  of  his  mind.  It  is  not  a  thing  indifferent,  I 
know,  whether  a  man  lies  at  ease  upon  a  bed,  or  in  torment 
upon  a  wheel:  and  yet  the  former  may  be  the  worse  of  the 
two,  if  we  suffer  the  latter  with  honour,  and  enjoy  the  other 
with  infamy.  It  is  not  the  matter,  but  the  virtue,  that  makes 
the  action  good  or  ill;  and  he  that  is  led  in  triumph  may  be 
yet  greater  than  his  conqueror.  When  we  come  once  to 
value  our  flesh  above  our  honesty,  we  are  lost;  and  yet  I 
would  not  press  upon  dangers,  no,  not  so  much  as  upon  incon- 
veniences, unless  where  the  man  and  the  brute  come  in  com- 
petition: and  in  such  a  case,  rather  than  make  a  forfeiture  of 
my  credit,  my  reason,  or  my  faith,  I  would  run  all  extremi- 
ties. They  are  great  blessings  to  have  tender  parents,  dutiful 
children,  and  to  live  under  a  just  and  well-ordered  govern- 
ment. Now,  would  it  not  trouble  even  a  virtuous  man  to  see 
his  children  butchered  before  his  eyes,  his  father  made  a  slave, 
and  his  country  over-run  by  a  barbarous  enemy?  There  is  a 
great  difference  betwixt  the  simple  loss  of  a  blessing,  and  the 
succeeding  of  a  great  mischief  into  the  place  of  it  over  and 
above.  The  loss  of  health  is  followed  with  sickness,  and  the 
loss  of  sight  with  blindness:  but  this  does  not  hold  in  the  loss 
of  friends  and  children,  where  there  is  rather  something  to 
the  contrary  to  supply  that  loss;  that  is  to  say,  virtue,  which 
fills  the  mind,  and  takes  away  the  desire  of  what  we  have 
not.  What  matters  it  whether  the  water  be  stopped  or  not, 
so  long  as  the  fountain  is  safe?  Is  a  man  ever  the  wiser  for  a 
multitude  of  friends,  or  the  more  foolish  for  the  loss  of  them? 
so  neither  is  he  the  happier,  not  the  more  miserable.  '  Short 
life,  grief,  and  pain,  are  accessions  that  have  no  effect  at  all 
upon  virtue.  It  consists  in  the  action,  and  not  in  the  things 
we  do:    in  the  choice  itself,  and  not  in  the  subject-matter  of 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  loi 

it.  It  is  not  a  despicable  body  or  condition:  not  poverty,  in- 
famy, or  scandal,  that  can  obscure  the  glories  of  virtue;  but 
a  man  may  see  her  through  all  oppositions,  and  he  that  looks 
diligently  into  the  state  of  a  wicked  man,  will  see  the  canker 
at  his  heart,  through  all  the  false  and  dazzling  splendours  of 
greatness  and  fortune.  We  shall  then  discover  our  childish- 
ness, in  setting  our  hearts  upon  things  trivial  and  contemptible, 
and  in  the  selling  of  our  very  country  and  parents  for  a  rat- 
tle. And  what  is  the  difference  (in  effect)  betwixt  old  men 
and  children,  but  that  the  one  deals  in  paintings  and  statues, 
and  the  other  in  babies?  So  that  we  ourselves  are  only  the 
more  expensive  fools. 

If  one  could  but  see  the  mind  of  a  good  man,  as  it  is  illus- 
trated with  virtue;   the  beauty  and  the  majesty 
of  it,  which  is  a  dignity  not  so  much  as  to  be      ,  ^ .  ^^^'^^ 

,  .  Of   VlfttCC 

thought  of  without  love  and  veneration;  would 
not  a  man  bless  himself  at  the  sight  of  such  an  object,  as  at 
the  encounter  of  some  supernatural  power?  A  power  so  mi- 
raculous, that  it  is  a  kind  of  charm  upon  the  souls  of  those 
that  are  truly  affected  with  it.  There  is  so  wonderful  a  grace 
and  authority  in  it,  that  even  the  worst  of  men  approve  it, 
and  set  up  for  the  reputation  of  being  accounted  virtuous 
themselves.  They  covet  the  fruit  indeed,  and  the  profit  of 
wickedness;  but  they  hate  and  are  ashamed  of  the  imputa- 
tion of  it.  It  is  by  an  impression  of  Nature  that  all  men  have 
a  reverence  for  virtue;  they  know  it,  and  they  have  a  respect 
for  it,  though  they  do  not  practice  it:  nay,  for  the  counte- 
nance of  their  very  wickedness,  they  miscal  it  virtue.  Their 
injuries  they  call  benefits,  and  expects  a  man  should  thank  them 
for  doing  him  a  mischief;  they  cover  their  most  notorious 
iniquities  with  a  pretext  of  justice.  He  that  robs  upon  the 
highway,  had  rather  find  his  booty  than  force  it.  Ask  any  of 
them  that  live  upon  rapine,  fraud,  oppression,  if  they  had  not 
rather  enjoy  a  fortune  honestly  gotten,  and  their  consciences 
will  not  suffer  them  to  deny  it.  Men  are  vicious  only  for  the 
profit  of  villany;  for  at  the  same  time  that  they  commit  it, 
they  condemn  it.  Nay,  so  powerful  is  virtue,  and  so  gracious 
is  Providence,  that  every  man  has  a  light  set  up  within  him  for 
a  guide;  which  we  do  all  of  us  both  see  and  acknowledge, 
though  we  do  not  pursue  it.  —  This  is  it  that  makes  the  prisoner 
upon  the  torture  happier  than  the  executioner,  and  sickness 
better  than  health,  if  we  bear  it  without  yielding  or  repining: 
this  is  it  that  overcomes  ill  fortune,  and  moderates  good;    for 


I02  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

it  marches  betwixt  the  one  and  the  other,  with  an  equal  con- 
tempt of  both.  It  turns  (like  fire)  all  things  into  itself;  our 
actions  and  our  friendships  are  tinctured  with  it,  and  what- 
ever it  touches  becomes  amiable.  That  which  is  frail  and 
mortal  rises  and  falls,  grows,  wastes,  and  varies  from  itself; 
but  the  state  of  things  divine  is  always  the  same;  and  so  is 
virtue,  let  the  matter  be  what  it  will.  It  is  never  the  worse 
for  the  difficulty  of  the  action,  nor  the  better  for  the  easiness 
of  it.  It  is  the  same  in  a  rich  man  as  in  a  poor;  in  a  sickly 
man  as  in  a  sound;  in  a  strong  as  in  a  weak:  the  virtue  of  the 
besieged  is  as  great  as  that  of  the  besiegers.  There  are  some 
virtues,  I  confess,  which  a  good  man  cannot  be  without,  and 
yet  he  had  rather  have  no  occasion  to  employ  them.  If  there 
were  any  difference,  I  should  prefer  the  virtues  vof  patience 
before  those  of  pleasure;  for  it  is  braver  to  break  through 
difficulties  than  to  temper  our  delights.  But  though  the  sub- 
ject of  virtue  may  possibly  be  against  nature,  as  to  be  burnt 
or  wounded,  yet  the  virtue  itself  of  an  invincible  patience  is 
according  to  nature.  We  may  seem,  perhaps,  to  promise 
more  than  human  nature  is  able  to  perform;  but  we  speak 
with  a  respect  to  the  mind,  and  not  to  the  body. 

If  a  man  does  not  live  up  to  his  own  rules,  it  is  something 

yet  to  have  virtuous  meditations  and  good 
The  good  will  purposes,  even  without  acting;  it  is  gene- 
^th^deed  ^  rous,  the  very  adventure  of  being  good,  and 

the  bare  proposal  of  an  eminent  course  of 
life,  though  beyond  the  force  of  human  frailty  to  accomplish. 
There  is  something  of  honour  yet  in  the  miscarriage;  nay, 
in  the  naked  contemplation  of  it.  I  would  receive  my  own 
death  with  as  little  trouble  as  I  would  hear  of  another  man's; 
I  would  bear  the  same  mind  whether  I  be  rich  or  poor,  whe- 
ther I  get  or  lose  in  the  world;  what  I  have,  I  will  not  either 
sordidly  spare,  or  prodigally  squander  away,  and  I  will  reckon 
upon  benefits  well  placed  as  the  fairest  part  of  my  possession: 
not  valuing  them  by  number  or  weight,  but  by  the  profit 
and  esteem  of  the  receiver;  accounting  myself  never  the 
poorer  for  that  which  I  give  to  a  worthy  person.  What  I  do 
shall  be  done  for  conscience,  not  ostentation.  I  will  eat  and 
drink,  not  to  gratify  my  palate,  or  only  to  fill  and  empty,  but 
to  satisfy  nature:  I  will  be  cheerful  to  my  friends,  mild  and 
placable  to  my  enemies:  I  will  prevent  an  honest  request  if 
I  can  foresee  it,  and  I  will  grant  it  without  asking:  I  will  look 
upon  the  whole  world   as  my  country,   and   upon  the  gods, 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  103 

both  as  the  witnesses  and  the  judges  of  my  words  and  deeds. 
I  will  live  and  die  with  this  testimony,  that  I  loved  good  stu- 
dies, and  a  good  conscience;  that  I  never  invaded  another 
man's  liberty,  and  that  I  preserved  my  own.  I  will  govern 
my  life  and  my  thoughts  as  if  the  whole  world  were  to  see 
the  one,  and  to  read  the  other;  for  "what  does  it  signify  to 
make  any  thing  a  secret  to  my  neighbour,  when  to  God  (who 
is  the  searcher  of  our  hearts)  all  our  privacies  are  open." 

Virtue  is  divided  into  two  parts,  contemplation  and  action. 
The     one     is     delivered     by     institution,     the 

other    by    admonition :     one    part    of    virtue    f  ^'"'"^  "  divided 
T     •    1-  1  1  •  into  contempla- 

consists  m  disciphne;  the  other  m  exer-  tion  and  action 
cise;  for  we  must  first  learn,  and  then 
practise.  The  sooner  we  begin  to  apply  ourselves  to  it,  and 
the  more  haste  we  make,  the  longer  shall  we  enjoy  the  com- 
forts of  a  rectified  mind:  nay,  we  have  the  fruition  of  it  in 
the  very  act  of  forming  it:  but  it  is  another  sort  of  delight,  I 
must  confess,  that  arises  from  the  contemplation  of  a  soul 
which  is  advanced  into  the  possession  of  wisdom  and  virtue. 
If  it  was  so  great  a  comfort  to  us  to  pass  from  the  subjection 
of  our  childhood  into  a  state  of  liberty  and  business,  how 
much  greater  will  it  be  when  we  come  to  cast  off  the  boyish 
levity  of  our  minds,  and  range  ourselves  among  the  philoso- 
phers.'' We  are  past  our  minority,  it  is  true,  but  not  our  indis- 
cretions; and,  which  is  yet  worse,  we  have  the  authority  of 
seniors,  and  the  weaknesses  of  children,  (I  might  have  said 
of  infants,  for  every  little  thing  frights  the  one,  and  every 
trivial  fancy  the  other.)  Whoever  studies  this  point  well 
will  find,  that  many  things  are  the  less  to  be  feared  the  more 
terrible  they  appear.  To  think  any  thing  good  that  is  not 
honest,  were  to  reproach  Providence;  for  good  men  suffer 
many  inconveniences;  but  virtue,  like  the  sun,  goes  on  still 
with  her  work,  let  the  air  be  never  so  cloudy,  and  finishes 
her  course,  extinguishing  likewise  all  other  splendours  and 
oppositions;  insomuch  that  calamity  is  no  more  to  a  virtuous 
mind,  than  a  shower  into  the  sea.  That  which  is  right,  is  not 
to  be  valued  by  quantity,  number,  or  time;  a  life  of  a  day  may 
be  as  honest  as  a  life  of  a  hundred  years:  but  yet  virtue  in 
one  man  may  have  a  larger  field  to  show  itself  in  than  in 
another.  One  man  perhaps,  may  be  in  a  station  to  adminis- 
ter unto  cities  and  kingdoms;  to  contrive  good  laws,  create 
friendships,  and  do  beneficial  offices  to  mankind;  it  is  ano- 
ther man's  fortune  to  be  straitened  by  poverty,  or  put  out  of 


104  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

the  way  by  banishment:  and  yet  the  latter  may  be  as  virtuous 
as  the  former;  and  may  have  as  great  a  mind,  as  exact  a  pru- 
dence, as  inviolable  a  justice,  and  as  large  a  knowledge  of 
things,  both  divine  and  human;  without  which  a  man  cannot 
be  happy.  For  virtue  is  open  to  all;  as  well  to  servants  and 
exiles,  as  to  princes:  it  is  profitable  to  the  world  and  to  it- 
self, at  all  distances  and  in  all  conditions;  and  there  is  no 
difficulty  can  excuse  a  man  from  the  exercise  of  it;  and  it  is 
only  to  be  found  in  a  wise  man,  though  there  may  be  some 
faint  resemblances  of  it  in  the  common  people.  The  Stoics 
Kold  all  virtues  to  be  equal;  but  yet  there  is  great  variety  in 
the  matter  they  have  to  work  upon,  according  as  it  is  larger 
or  narrower,  illustrious  or  less  noble,  of  more  or  less  extent; 
as  all  good  men  are  equal,  that  is  to  say,  as  they  are  good; 
but  yet  one  may  be  young,  another  old;  one  may  be  rich, 
another  poor;  one  eminent  and  powerful,  another  unknown 
and  obscure.  There  are  many  things  which  have  little  or  no 
grace  in  themselves,  and  are  yet  glorious  and  remarkable  by 
virtue.  Nothing  can  be  good  which  gives  neither  greatness 
nor  security  to  the  mind;  but,  on  the  contrary,  infects  it  with 
insolence,  arrogance,  and  tumour:  nor  does  virtue  dwell 
upon  the  tip  of  the  tongue,  but  in  the  temple  of  a  purified 
heart.  He  that  depends  upon  any  other  good  becomes  cove- 
tous of  life,  and  what  belongs  to  it;  which  exposes  a  man  to 
appetites  that  are  vast,  unlimited,  and  intolerable.  Virtue  is 
free  and  indefatigable,  and  accompanied  with  concord  and 
gracefulness;  whereas  pleasure  is  mean,  servile,  transitory, 
tiresome,  and  sickly,  and  scarce  outlives  the  tasting  of  it: 
it  is  the  good  of  the  belly,  and  not  of  the  man,  and  only  the 
felicity  of  brutes.  Who  does  not  know  that  fools  enjoy  their 
pleasures,  and  that  there  is  great  variety  in  the  entertain- 
ments of  wickedness?  Nay,  the  mind  itself  has  its  variety  of 
perverse  pleasures  as  well  as  the  body:  as  insolence,  self- 
conceit,  pride,  garrulity,  laziness,  and  the  abusive  wit  of  turn- 
ing every  thing  into  ridicule;  whereas  virtue  weighs  all  this, 
and  corrects  it.  It  is  the  knowledge  both  of  others  and  of 
itself;  it  is  to  be  learned  from  itself;  and  the  very  will  itself 
may  be  taught;  which  will  cannot  be  right,  unless  the  whole 
habit  of  the  mind  be  right  from  whence  the  will  comes.  It 
is  by  the  impulse  of  virtue  that  we  love  virtue,  so  that  the 
very  way  to  virtue,  lies  by  virtue,  which  takes  in  also,  at  a 
view,  the  laws  of  human  life. 

Neither   are   we   to   value   ourselves    upon    a    day,   or   an 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  105 

hour,  or  any  one  action,  but  upon  the  whole 
habit  of  the  mind.  Some  men  do  one  thing  ^  virtuous  life 
bravely,  but  not  another;  they  will  shrink  at  ""'l''  ^'  ""^^ "'' 
infamy,  and  bear  up  against  poverty:  in  this 
case,  we  commend  the  fact,  and  despise  the  man.  The  soul 
is  never  in  the  right  place  until  it  be  delivered  from  the  cares 
of  human  ajfFairs;  we  must  labour  and  climb  the  hill  if  we 
will  arrive  at  virtue,  whose  seat  is  upon  the  top  of  it.  He 
that  masters  avarice,  and  is  truly  good,  stands  firm  against  am- 
bition; he  looks  upon  his  last  hour  not  as  a  punishment,  but 
as  the  equity  of  a  common  fate;  he  that  subdues  his  carnal 
lusts  shall  easily  keep  himself  untainted  with  any  other: 
so  that  reason  does  not  encounter  this  or  that  vice  by  itself, 
but  beats  down  all  at  a  blow.  What  does  he  care  for  igno- 
miny that  only  values  himself  upon  conscience,  and  not 
opinion?  Socrates  looked  a  scandalous  death  in  the  face 
with  the  same  constancy  that  he  had  before  practised  towards 
the  thirty  tyrants:  his  virtue  consecrated  the  very  dungeon; 
as  Cato's  repulse  was  Cato's  honour,  and  the  reproach  of  the 
government.  He  that  is  wise  will  take  delight  even  in  an  ill 
opinion  that  is  well  gotten;  it  is  ostentation,  not  virtue,  when 
a  man  will  have  his  good  deeds  published;  and  it  is  not 
enough  to  be  just  where  there  is  honour  to  be  gotten,  but  to 
continue  so,  in  defiance  of  infamy  and  danger. 

But  virtue  cannot  lie  hid,  for  the  time  will  come  that  shall 
raise   it   again    (even   after   it   is    buried)    and 
deliver    it    from    the    malignity    of    the    age    f  ^>^"^  ^-^^  «f  ^^ 

,  ...  11  .  P       oe  suppressed 

that  oppressed  it:  immortal  glory  is  the 
shadow  of  it,  and  keeps  it  company  whether  we  will  or  not; 
but  sometimes  the  shadow  goes  before  the  substance,  and 
other  whiles  it  follows  it;  and  the  later  it  comes,  the  larger 
it  is,  when  even  envy  itself  shall  have  given  way  to  it.  It 
was  a  long  time  that  Democritus  was  taken  for  a  madman, 
and  before  Socrates  had  any  esteem  in  the  world.  How  long 
was  it  before  Cato  could  be  understood  ?  Nay,  he  was  affront- 
ed, contemned,  and  rejected;  and  people  never  knew  the 
value  of  him  until  they  had  lost  him:  the  integrity  and  cour- 
age of  mad  Rutilius  had  been  forgotten  but  for  his  sufferings. 
I  speak  of  those  that  fortune  has  made  famous  for  their  per- 
secutions: and  there  are  others  also  that  the  world  never 
took  notice  of  until  they  were  dead;  as  Epicurus  and  Metro- 
dorus,  that  were  almost  wholly  unknown,  even  in  the  place 
where  they  lived.     Now,  as  the  body  is  to  be  kept  in  upon 


io6  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

the  down-hill,  and  forced  upwards,  so  there  are  some  virtues 
that  require  the  rein  and  others  the  spur.  In  liberality,  tem- 
perance, gentleness  of  nature,  we  are  to  check  ourselves  for 
fear  of  falling;  but  in  -patience,  resolution,  and  perseverance, 
where  we  are  to  mount  the  hill,  we  stand  in  need  of  encour- 
agement. Upon  this  division  of  the  matter,  I  had  rather  steer 
the  smoother  course  than  pass  through  the  experiments  of 
sweat  and  blood:  I  know  it  is  my  duty  to  be  content  in  all 
conditions;  but  yet,  if  it  were  at  my  election,  I  would  choose 
the  fairest.  When  a  man  comes  once  to  stand  in  need  of  for- 
tune, his  life  is  anxious,  suspicious,  timorous,  dependent  upon 
every  moment,  and  in  fear  of  all  accidents.  How  can  that 
man  resign  himself  to  God,  or  bear  his  lot,  whatever  it  be, 
without  murmuring,  and  cheerfully  submit  to  Providence, 
that  shrinks  at  every  motion  of  pleasure  or  pain.?  It  is  virtue 
alone  that  raises  us  above  griefs,  hopes,  fears,  and  chances; 
and  makes  us  not  only  patient,  but  willing,  as  knowing,  that 
whatever  we  suffer  is  according  to  the  decree  of  Heaven. 
He  that  is  overcome  with  pleasure,  (so  contemptible  and  weak 
an  enemy)  what  will  become  of  him  when  he  comes  to 
grapple  with  dangers,  necessities,  torments,  death,  and  the 
dissolution  of  nature  itself.?  Wealth,  honour,  and  favour,  may 
come  upon  a  man  by  chance;  nay,  they  may  be  cast  upon 
him  without  so  much  as  looking  after  them:  but  virtue  is  the 
work  of  industry  and  labour;  and  certainly  it  is  worth  the 
while  to  purchase  that  good  which  brings  all  others  along  with 
it.  A  good  man  is  happy  within  himself,  and  independent 
upon  fortune:  kind  to  his  friend,  temperate  to  his  enemy, 
religiously  just,  indefatigably  laborious;  and  he  discharges  all 
duties  with  a  constancy  and  congruity  of  actions. 


CHAP.   IV 

Philosophy  is  the  guide  of  life 

If  it  be  true,  that  the  understanding  and  the  will  are  the 
two  eminent  faculties  of  the  reasonable  soul,  it  follows  neces- 
sarily, that  wisdom  and  virtue,  (which  are  the  best  improve- 
ment of  these  two  faculties,)  must  be  the  perfection  also  of 
our  reasonable  being;  and  consequently,  the  undeniable  foun- 
dation of  a  happy  life.     There  is  not  any  duty  to  which  Provi- 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  107 

dence   has   not   annexed    a    blessing;     nor   any   institution   of 

heaven  which,  even  in  this  Hfe,  we  may  not  be  the  better  for; 

not  any  temptation,  either  of  fortune  or  of  appetite,  that  is 

not  subject  to  our  reason;    nor  any  passion  or  affliction  for 

which  virtue  has  not  provided  a  remedy.     So  that  it  is  our 

own  fault  if  we  either  fear  or  hope  for  any  thing;    which  two 

affections  are  the  root  of  all  our  miseries.     From  this  general 

prospect  of  the  foundation  of  our  tranquillity,  we  shall   pass 

by  degrees  to  a    particular    consideration    of   the    means,  by 

which  it  may  be  procured,  and  of  the  impediments  that  obstruct 

it;    beginning  with  that  philosophy  which  principally  regards 

our  manners,  and  instructs  us  in  the  measures  of  a  virtuous  and 

quiet  life. 

Philosophy  is  divided  into  moral,  natural,  and  rational:    the 

first      concerns      our      manners;       the      second 

searches  the  works  of  Nature;    and   the  third    P^^^^ofoph  " 
r        •  1  VL  •   ^  c  J  J     moral,   natural, 

furnishes    us    with    propriety    ot    words    and    ^nd  rational 

arguments,  and  the  faculty  of  distinguishing, 
that  we  may  not  be  imposed  upon  with  tricks  and  fallacies. 
The  causes  of  things  fall  under  natural  philosophy,  arguments 
under  rational,  and  actions  under  moral.  Moral  philosophy 
is  again  divided  into  matter  of  justice,  which  arises  from  the 
estimation  of  things  and  of  men;  and  into  affections  and 
actions;  and  a  failing  in  any  one  of  these,  disorders  all  the 
rest:  for  what  does  it  profit  us  to  know  the  true  value  of 
things,  if  we  be  transported  by  our  passions.?  or  to  master 
our  appetites  without  understanding  the  when,  the  what,  the 
how,  and  other  circumstances  of  our  proceedings.?  For  it  is 
one  thing  to  know  the  rate  and  dignity  of  things,  and  another 
to  know  the  little  nicks  and  springs  of  acting.  Natural  philo- 
sophy is  conversant  about  things  corporeal  and  incorporeal; 
the  disquisition  of  causes  and  effects,  and  the  contemplation  of 
the  cause  of  causes.  Rational  philosophy,  is  divided  into  logic 
and  rhetoric;  the  one  looks  after  words,  sense,  and  order;  the 
other  treats  barely  of  words,  and  the  significations  of  them. 
Socrates  places  all  philosophy  in  morals;  and  wisdom  in  the 
distinguishing  of  good  and  evil.  It  is  the  art  and  law  of  life,  1 
and  it  teaches  us  what  to  do  in  all  cases,  and,  like  good  [ 
marksmen,  to  hit  the  white  at  any  distance.  The  force  of  it  i 
is  incredible;  for  it  gives  us  in  the  weakness  of  a  man  the 
security  of  a  spirit:  in  sickness  it  is  as  good  as  a  remedy  to 
us;  for  whatsoever  eases  the  mind  is  profitable  also  to  the 
body.     The  physician  may  prescribe  diet  and  exercise,  and 


io8  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

accommodate  his  rule  and  medicine  to  the  disease,  but  it  is 
philosophy  that  must  bring  us  to  a  contempt  of  death,  which 
is  the  remedy  of  all  diseases.  In  poverty  it  gives  us  riches,  or 
such  a  state  of  mind  as  makes  them  superfluous  to  us.  It 
arms  us  against  all  difficulties:  one  man  is  pressed  with 
death,  another  with  poverty;  some  with  envy,  others  are 
offended  at  Providence,  and  unsatisfied  with  the  condition  of 
mankind:  but  philosophy  prompts  us  to  relieve  the  prisoner, 
the  infirm,  the  necessitous,  the  condemned;  to  show  the  ig- 
norant their  errors,  and  rectify  their  affections.  It  makes  us 
inspect  and  govern  our  manners;  it  rouses  us  where  we  are 
faint  and  drowsy;  it  binds  up  what  is  loose,  and  humbles  in  us 
that  which  is  contumacious:  it  delivers  the  mind  from  the 
bondage  of  the  body,  and  raises  it  up  to  the  contemplation  of 
its  divine  original.  Honours,  monuments,  and  all  the  works 
of  vanity  and  ambition,  are  demolished  and  destroyed  by 
time;  but  the  reputation  of  wisdom  is  venerable  to  posterity: 
and  those  that  were  envied  or  neglected  in  their  lives  are 
adored  in  their  memories,  and  exempted  from  the  very  laws 
of  created  nature,  which  has  set  bounds  to  all  other  things. 
The  very  shadow  of  glory  carries  a  man  of  honour  upon  all 
dangers,  to  the  contempt  of  fire  and  sword;  and  it  were  a 
shame  if  right  reason  should  not  inspire  as  generous  resolu- 
tions into  a  man  of  virtue. 

Neither  is  philosophy  only  profitable  to  the  public,  but  one 

wise  man  helps  another,  even  in  the  exer- 
One  wise  man  ^-^^  ^j-  ^j^^jj.  yj^ygs;  and  the  one  has  need 
teaches  another  r       ^  ^  ^      ^       r  •  i 

or     the     other,     both     tor     conversation     and 

counsel;  for  they  kindle  a  mutual  emulation  in  good  offices. 
We  are  not  so  perfect  yet,  but  that  many  new  things  remain 
still  to  be  found  out,  which  will  give  us  the  reciprocal  advan- 
tages of  instructing  one  another:  for  as  one  wicked  man  is 
contagious  to  another,  and  the  more  vices  are  mingled,  the 
worse  it  is,  so  is  it  on  the  contrary  with  good  men  and  their 
virtues.  As  men  of  letters  are  the  most  useful  and  excellent 
of  friends,  so  are  they  the  best  of  subjects;  as  being  better 
judges  of  the  blessings  they  enjoy  under  a  well-ordered  go- 
vernment, and  of  what  they  owe  to  the  magistrate  for  their 
freedom  and  protection.  They  are  men  of  sobriety  and 
learning,  and  free  from  boasting  and  insolence;  they  reprove 
the  vice  without  reproaching  the  person:  for  they  have 
learned  to  be  wise  without  either  pomp  or  envy.  That  which 
we  see  in  high  mountains,  we  find  in  philosophers;   they  seem 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  109 

taller  near  hand  than  at  a  distance.  They  are  raised  above 
other  men,  but  their  greatness  is  substantial.  Nor  do  they 
stand  upon  the  tiptoe,  that  they  may  seem  higher  than  they 
are,  but  content  with  their  own  stature,  they  reckon  them- 
selves tall  enough  when  fortune  cannot  reach  them.  Their 
laws  are  short,  and  yet  comprehensive  too,  for  they  bind  all. 

It  is  the  bounty  of  nature  that  we  live;  -  but  of  philosophy 
that  we  live  well,  which  is  in  truth  a  greater 
benefit  than  life  itself.  Not  but  that  philoso-  Philosophy 
phy  is  also  the  gift  of  heaven,  so  far  as  to  the  ^^^^  ^^^^ 
faculty,  but  not  to  the  science;  for  that  must 
be  the  business  of  industry.  No  man  is  born  wise;  but  wis- 
dom and  virtue  require  a  tutor,  though  we  can  easily  learn  to 
be  vicious  without  a  master.  It  is  philosophy  that  gives  us  a 
veneration  for  God,  a  charity  for  our  neighbour,  that  teaches 
us  our  duty  to  heaven,  and  exhorts  us  to  an  agreement  one 
with  another;  it  unmasks  things  that  are  terrible  to  us,  as- 
suages our  lusts,  refutes  our  errors,  restrains  our  luxury,  re- 
proves our  avarice,  and  works  strangely  upon  tender  natures. 
I  could  never  hear  Attains  (says  Seneca)  upon  the  vices  of 
the  age,  and  the  errors  of  life  without  a  compassion  for  man- 
kind; and  in  his  discourses  upon  poverty,  there  was  some- 
thing methought  that  was  more  than  human.  "More  than 
we  use,"  says  he,  "is  more  than  we  need,  and  only  a  burden 
to  the  bearer."  That  saying  of  his  put  me  out  of  counte- 
nance at  the  superfluities  of  my  own  fortune.  And  so  in  his 
invectives  against  vain  pleasures,  he  did  at  such  a  rate  ad- 
vance the  felicities  of  a  sober  table,  a  pure  mind,  and  a  chaste 
body,  that  a  man  could  not  hear  him  without  a  love  for  conti- 
nence and  moderation.  Upon  these  lectures  of  his,  I  denied 
myself,  for  a  while  after,  certain  delicacies  that  I  had  formerly 
used :  but  in  a  short  time  I  fell  to  them  again,  though  so  spa- 
ringly, that  the  proportion  came  little  short  of  a  total  absti- 
nence. 

Now,  to  show  you  (says  our  author)  how  much  earnester 
my   entrance    upon    philosophy   was    than   my 
progress,  my  tutor  Sotion  gave  me  a  wonder-    -^""^^  "  '^/^ '" 
ful  kindness  for  Pythagoras,  and  after  him  for    /  ^  ^°°    ^^' 

c        ■  1  rri  111-  r    fr^ssions 

bextius:    the      rormer      lorbore      sheddmg      of 
blood   upon   his   metempsycosis;    and   put  men   in   fear  of  it, 
lest    they    should    offer    violence    to    the    souls    of    some    of 
their    departed    friends    or    relations.     "Whether,"    says    he, 
"there  be  a  transmigration  or  not;    if  it  be  true,  there  is  no 


no  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

hurt  in  it;  if  false,  there  is  frugality:  and  nothing  is  gotten 
by  cruelty  neither,  but  the  cozening  a  wolf,  perhaps,  or  a 
vulture,  of  a  supper."  Now,  Sextius  abstained  upon  another 
account,  which  was,  that  he  would  not  have  men  inured  to 
hardness  of  heart  by  the  laceration  and  tormenting  of  living 
creatures;  beside,  that  Nature  had  sufficiently  provided  for 
the  sustenance  of  mankind  without  blood."  This  wrought 
so  far  upon  me  that  I  gave  over  eating  of  flesh,  and  in  one 
year  I  made  it  not  only  easy  to  me  but  pleasant;  my  mind 
methought  was  more  at  liberty,  (and  I  am  still  of  the  same 
opinion,)  but  I  gave  it  over  nevertheless;  and  the  reason  was 
this:  It  was  imputed  as  a  superstition  to  the  Jews,  the  forbear- 
ance of  some  sorts  of  flesh,  and  my  father  brought  me  back 
again  to  my  old  custom,  that  I  might  not  be  thought  tainted 
with  their  superstition.  Nay,  and  I  had  much  ado  to  prevail 
upon  myself  to  suffer  it  too.  I  make  use  of  this  instance  to 
show  the  aptness  of  youth  to  take  good  impressions,  if  there 
be  a  friend  at  hand  to  press  them.  Philosophers  are  the 
tutors  of  mankind;  if  they  have  found  out  remedies  for  the 
mind,  it  must  be  our  part  to  apply  them.  I  cannot  think  of 
Cato,  Lelius,  Socrates,  Plato,  without  veneration:  their  very 
names  are  sacred  to  me.  Philosophy  is  the  health  of  the 
mind;  let  us  look  to  that  health  first,  and  in  the  second  place 
to  that  of  the  body,  which  may  be  had  upon  easier  terms;  for 
a  strong  arm,  a  robust  constitution,  or  the  skill  of  procuring 
this,  is  not  a  philosopher's  business.  He  does  some  things 
as  a  wise  man,  and  other  things  as  he  is  a  man;  and  he  may 
have  strength  of  body  as  well  as  of  mind;  but  if  he  runs,  or 
casts  the  sledge,  it  were  injurious  to  ascribe  that  to  his  wis- 
dom which  is  common  to  the  greatest  of  fools.  He  studies 
rather  to  fill  his  mind  than  his  coffers;  and  he  knows  that 
gold  and  silver  were  mingled  with  dirt,  until  avarice  or  ambition 
parted  them.  His  life  is  ordinate,  fearless,  equal,  secure;  he 
stands  firm  in  all  extremities,  and  bears  the  lot  of  his  hu- 
manity with  a  divine  temper.  There  is  a  great  diff'erence 
betwixt  the  splendor  of  philosophy  and  of  fortune;  the  one 
shines  with  an  original  light,  the  other  with  a  borrowed  one; 
beside  that  it  makes  us  happy  and  immortal:  for  learning 
shall  outlive  palaces  and  monuments.  The  house  of  a  wise 
man  is  safe,  though  narrow;  there  is  neither  noise  nor  furni- 
ture in  it,  no  porter  at  the  door,  nor  any  thing  that  is  either 
vendible  or  mencenary,  nor  any  business  of  fortune;  for  she 
has  nothing  to  do  where  she  has  nothing  to  look  after.  This 
is  the  way  to  heaven  which  Nature  has  chalked  out,  and  it 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  in 

is  both  secure  and  pleasant;   there  needs  no  train  of  servants, 

no  pomp  or  equipage,  to  make  good  our  passage;    no  money, 

or  letters  of  credit,  for  expenses  upon  the  voyage;    but  the 

graces  of  an  honest  mind  will  serve  us  upon  the  way,  and 

make  us  happy  at  our  journey's  end. 

To  tell  you  my  opinion  now  of  the  liberal  sciences;    I  have 

no  great  esteem  for  any  thing  that  terminates 

in    profit    or   money;     and    yet    I    shall    allow    "^ke  liberal  sci- 

them  to  be  so  far  beneficial,  as  they  only  pre-    ^^'^^  ^''Z  ^f " 

,  ,  , .  ■  I  ,        .    .         .         tcrs  rather  of 

-pare   the    understandmg   without   detaimng   it.    ^^^i^^i^y  ^^^^ 

They  are  but  the  rudiments  of  wisdom,  and  virtue 
only  then  to  be  learned  when  the  mind  is 
capable  of  nothing  better,  and  the  knowledge  of  them  is  bet- 
ter worth  the  keeping  than  the  acquiring.  They  do  not  so 
much  as  pretend  to  the  making  of  us  virtuous,  but  only  to 
give  us  an  aptitude  of  disposition  to  be  so.  The  gramma- 
rian's business  lies  in  a  syntax  of  speech;  or  if  he  proceed  to 
history,  or  the  measuring  of  a  verse,  he  is  at  the  end  of  his 
line;  but  what  signifies  a  congruity  of  periods,  the  computing 
of  syllables,  or  the  modifying  of  numbers,  to  the  taming  of 
our  passions,  or  the  repressing  of  our  lusts.''  The  philosopher 
proves  the  body  of  the  sun  to  be  large,  but  for  the  true  di- 
mensions of  it  we  must  ask  the  mathematician:  geometry  and 
music,  if  they  do  not  teach  us  to  master  our  hopes  and  fears, 
all  the  rest  is  to  little  purpose.  What  does  it  concern  us 
which  was  the  elder  of  the  two.  Homer  or  Hesiod.''  or  which 
was  the  taller,  Helen  or  Hecuba?  We  take  a  great  deal  of 
pains  to  trace  Ulysses  in  his  wanderings;  but  were  it  not 
time  as  well  spent  to  look  to  ourselves  that  we  may  not 
wander  at  all?  Are  not  we  ourselves  tossed  with  tempes- 
tuous passions?  and  both  assaulted  by  terrible  monsters  on  the 
one  hand,  and  tempted  by  syrens  on  the  other?  Teach  me  my 
duty  to  my  country,  to  my  father,  to  my  wife,  to  mankind. 
What  is  it  to  me  whether  Penelope  was  honest  or  not?  teach 
me  to  know  how  to  be  so  myself,  and  to  live  according  to 
that  knowledge.  What  am  I  the  better  for  putting  so  many 
parts  together  in  music,  and  raising  a  harmony  out  of  so  many 
different  tones?  teach  me  to  tune  my  affections,  and  to  hold 
constant  to  myself.  Geometry  teaches  me  the  art  of  measur- 
ing acres;  teach  me  to  measure  my  appetites,  and  to  know 
when  I  have  enough;  teach  me  to  divide  with  my  brother, 
and  to  rejoice  in  the  prosperity  of  my  neighbour.  You  teach 
me  how  I  may  hold  my  own,  and  keep  my  estate;    but  I 


112  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

would  rather  learn  how  I  may  loose  it  all,  and  yet  be 
contented.  "It  is  hard,"  you  will  say,  "for  a  man  to  be 
forced  from  the  fortune  of  his  family."  This  estate,  it  is  true, 
was  my  father's;  but  whose  was  it  in  the  time  of  my  great 
grandfather?  I  do  not  only  say,  what  man's  was  it.?  but  what 
nation's?  The  astrologer  tells  me  of  Saturn  and  Mars  in  op- 
position; but  I  say,  let  them  be  as  they  will,  their  courses  and 
their  positions  are  ordered  them  by  an  unchangeable  decree 
of  Fate.  Either  they  produce  and  point  out  the  effects  of 
all  things,  or  else  they  signify  them;  if  the  former,  what  are 
we  the  better  for  the  knowledge  of  that  which  must  of  ne- 
cessity come  to  pass.?  If  the  latter,  what  does  it  avail  us  to 
foresee  what  we  cannot  avoid?  So  that  whether  we  know  or 
not  know,  the  event  will  still  be  the  same. 

He  that  designs  the  institution  of  human  life  should  not  be 

over-curious  of  his  words;  it  does  not  stand 
It  is  not  for  the  with  his  dignity  to  be  solicitous  about  sounds 
dignity  of  a  ^^^  syllables,  and  to  debase  the  mind  of  man 

philosopher  to  -in         j       •    •   i     i  •  i      •  •    , 

be  curious  "^^^^  small  and  trivial  thmgs;    placmg  wisdom 

about  words  in  matters  that  are  rather  difficult  than  great. 

If  it  be  eloquent,  it  is  his  good  fortune,  not  his 
business.  Subtle  disputations  are  only  the  sport  of  wits,  that 
play  upon  the  catch,  and  are  fitter  to  be  contemned  than  re- 
solved. Were  not  I  a  madman  to  sit  wrangling  about  words, 
and  putting  of  nice  and  impertinent  questions,  when  the 
enemy  has  already  made  the  breach,  the  town  fired  over  my 
head,  and  the  mine  ready  to  play  that  shall  blow  me  up  into 
the  air?  were  this  a  time  for  fooleries.?  Let  me  rather  fortify 
myself  against  death  and  inevitable  necessities;  let  me  un- 
derstand that  the  good  of  life  does  not  consist  in  the  length 
or  space,  but  in  the  use  of  it.  When  I  go  to  sleep,  who  knows 
whether  ever  I  shall  wake  again?  and  when  I  wake  whether 
ever  I  shall  sleep  again?  When  I  go  abroad,  whether  ever  I 
shall  come  home  again?  and  when  I  return,  whether  ever  I 
shall  go  abroad  again  ?  It  is  not  at  sea  only  that  life  and  death 
are  within  a  few  inches  one  of  another;  but  they  are  as  near 
every  where  else  too,  only  we  do  not  take  so  much  notice  of 
it.  What  have  we  to  do  with  frivolous  and  captious  questions, 
and  impertinent  niceties?  Let  us  rather  study  how  to  deliver 
ourselves  from  sadness,  fear,  and  the  burden  of  all  our  secret 
lusts:  let  us  pass  over  all  our  most  solemn  levities,  and  make 
haste  to  a  good  life,  which  is  a  thing  that  presses  us.  Shall  a 
man  that  goes  for  a  midwife,  stand  gaping  upon  a  post  to  see 
what  play  to-day?   or,  when  his  house  is  on  fire,  stay  the  cur- 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  113 

ling  of  a  periwig  before  he  calls  for  help  ?  Our  houses  are  on 
fire,  our  country  invaded,  our  goods  taken  away,  our  children 
in  danger;  and,  I  might  add  to  these,  the  calamities  of  earth- 
quakes, shipwrecks,  and  whatever  else  is  most  terrible.  Is 
this  a  time  for  us  now  to  be  playing  fast  and  loose  with  idle 
questions,  which  are  in  effect  but  so  many  unprofitable  rid- 
dles? Our  duty  is  the  cure  of  the  mind  rather  than  the  delight 
of  it;  but  we  have  only  the  words  of  wisdom  without  the 
works;  and  turn  philosophy  into  a  pleasure  that  was  given 
for  a  remedy.  What  can  be  more  ridiculous  than  for  a  man 
to  neglect  his  manners  and  compose  his  style?  We  are  sick  and 
ulcerous,  and  must  be  lanced  and  sacrificed,  and  every  man 
has  as  much  business  within  himself  as  a  physician  in  a  com- 
mon pestilence.  "Misfortunes,"  in  fine,  "cannot  be  avoid- 
ed; but  they  may  be  sweetened,  if  not  overcome;  and  our 
lives  may  be  made  happy  by  philosophy." 


CHAP.  V 

The  force  of  precepts 

There  seems  to  be  so  near  an  afiinity  betwixt  wisdom,  phi- 
losophy, and  good  counsels,  that  it  is  rather  matter  of  curiosity 
than  of  profit  to  divide  them;  philosophy,  being  only  a  limited 
wisdom;  and  good  counsels  a  communication  of  that  wisdom,  for 
the  good  of  others,  as  well  as  of  ourselves;  and  to  posterity,  as 
well  as  to  the  present.  The  wisdom  of  the  ancients,  as  to  the 
government  of  life,  was  no  more  than  certain  precepts,  what 
to  do  and  what  not:  and  men  were  much  better  in  that  simpli- 
city; for  as  they  came  to  be  more  learned,  they  grew  less 
careful  of  being  good.  That  plain  and  open  virtue  is  now 
turned  into  a  dark  and  intricate  science;  and  we  are  taught  to 
dispute  rather  than  to  live.  So  long  as  wickedness  was  simple, 
simple  remedies  also  were  sufficient  against  it;  but  now  it  has 
taken  root,  and  spread,  we  must  make  use  of  stronger. 

There  are  some  dispositions  that  embrace  good  things  as 

soon   as   they   hear   them;     but   they  will   still 

need    quickening   by   admonition    and    precept.    The  best  of  us 

We  are  rash  and   forward  in  some  cases,  and    "'^^  ^/^    f      . 
J    11     •  ^1  J     ^1  •  •  ter  for  admom- 

dull    m    others;     and    there    is    no    repressmg    ^ion  and  pre- 

of  the   one   humour,   or   raising   of  the   other,    cept 

but  by  removing  the  causes  of  them;    which 


114  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

are  (in  one  word)  false  admiration  and  false  fear.  Every  man 
knows  his  duty  to  his  country,  to  his  friends,  to  his  guests; 
and  yet  when  he  is  called  upon  to  draw  his  sword  for  the  one, 
or  to  labour  for  the  other,  he  finds  himself  distracted  betwixt 
his  apprehensions  and  his  delights:  he  knows  well  enough 
the  injury  he  does  his  wife  in  the  keeping  of  a  wench,  and  yet 
his  lust  over-rules  him:  so  that  it  is  not  enough  to  give  good 
advice,  unless  we  can  take  away  that  which  hinders  the  bene- 
fit of  it.  If  a  man  does  what  he  ought  to  do,  he  will  never  do 
it  constantly  or  equally,  without  knowing  why  he  does  it: 
and  if  it  be  only  chance  or  custom,  he  that  does  well 
by  chance,  may  do  ill  so  too.  And  farther,  a  precept 
may  direct  us  what  we  ought  to  do,  and  yet  fall  short 
in  the  manner  of  doing  it:  an  expensive  entertainment  may, 
in  one  case,  be  extravagance  or  gluttony,  and  yet  a  point  of 
honour  and  discretion  in  another.  Tiberius  Caesar  had  a  huge 
mullet  presented  him,  which  he  sent  to  the  market  to  be  sold: 
"and  now,"  says  he,  "my  masters,"  to  some  company  with 
him,  "you  shall  see  that  either  Apricius  or  Octavius  will  be 
the  chapman  for  this  fish."  Octavius  beat  the  price,  and  gave 
about  thirty  pounds  sterling  for  it.  Now,  there  was  a  great 
difference  between  Octavius,  that  bought  it  for  his  luxury,  and 
the  other  that  purchased  it  for  a  compliment  to  Tiberius.  Pre- 
cepts are  idle,  if  we  be  not  first  taught  what  opinion  we  are 
to  have  of  the  matter  in  question;  whether  it  be  poverty, 
riches,  disgrace,  sickness,  banishment,  ^c.  Let  us  therefore  ex- 
amine them  one  by  one;  not  what  they  are  called,  but  what 
in  truth  they  are.  And  so  for  the  virtues;  it  is  to  no  purpose 
to  set  a  high  esteem  upon  prudence,  fortitude,  temperance,  jus- 
tice, if  we  do  not  first  know  what  virtue  is:  whether  one  or 
more;  or  if  he  that  has  one,  has  all;  or  how  they  differ. 

Precepts  are  of  great  weight;     and   a  few  useful  ones  at 

hand  do  more  toward  a  happy  life  than  whole 
The  power  of  volumes  or  cautions,  that  we  know  not  where 
■prece-p  s  an  ^^   find.     These    salutary    precepts    should    be 

our  daily  meditation,  for  they  are  the  rules  by 
which  we  ought  to  square  our  lives.  When  they  are  con- 
tracted into  sentences,  they  strike  the  affections:  whereas  ad- 
monition  is  only  blowing  of  the  coal;  it  moves  the  vigour  of 
the  mind,  and  excites  virtue:  we  have  the  thing  already,  but 
we  know  not  where  it  lies.  It  is  by  precepts  that  the  under- 
standing is  nourished  and  augmented:  the  offices  of  prudence 
and  justice  are  guided  by  them,  and  they  lead  us  to  the  ex- 
ecution  of  our   duties.     A   precept   delivered   in   verse   has    a 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  115 

much  greater  effect  than  in  prose:  and  those  very  people  that 
never  think  they  have  enough,  let  them  but  hear  a  sharp  sen- 
tence against  avarice,  how  will  they  clap  and  admire  it,  and 
bid  open  defiance  to  money?  So  soon  as  we  find  the  affec- 
tions struck,  we  must  follow  the  blow;  not  with  syllogisms  or 
quirks  of  wit;  but  with  plain  and  weighty  reason:  and  we 
must  do  it  with  kindness  too,  and  respect:  for  "there  goes  a 
blessing  along  with  counsels  and  discourses  that  are  bent 
wholly  upon  the  good  of  the  hearer:"  and  those  are  still  the 
most  efficacious  that  take  reason  along  with  them;  and  tell 
us  as  well  why  we  are  to  do  this  or  that,  as  what  we  are  to  do: 
for  some  understandings  are  weak,  and  need  an  instructor  to 
expound  to  them  what  is  good  and  what  is  evil.  It  is  a  great 
virtue  to  love,  to  give,  and  to  follow  good  counsel;  if  it  does 
not  lead  us  to  honesty,  it  does  at  least  prompt  us  to  it.  As 
several  parts  make  up  but  one  harmony,  and  the  most  agree- 
able music  arises  from  discords;  so  should  a  wise  man  gather 
many  acts,  many  precepts,  and  the  examples  of  many  arts, 
to  inform  his  own  life.  Our  forefathers  have  left  us  in  charge 
to  avoid  three  things;  hatred,  envy,  and  contempt;  now,  it  is 
hard  to  avoid  envy  and  not  incur  contempt;  for  in  taking  too 
much  care  not  to  usurp  upon  others,  we  become  many  times 
liable  to  be  trampled  upon  ourselves.  Some  people  are  afraid 
of  others,  because  it  is  possible  that  others  may  be  afraid  of 
them:  but  let  us  secure  ourselves  on  all  hands;  for  flattery 
is  as  dangerous  as  contempt.  It  is  not  to  say,  in  case  of  ad- 
monition, I  knew  this  before:  for  we  know  many  things,  but 
we  do  not  think  of  them;  so  that  it  is  the  part  of  a  monitor, 
not  so  much  to  teach  as  to  mind  us  of  our  duties.  Sometimes 
a  man  oversees  that  which  lies  just  under  his  nose;  other- 
while  he  is  careless,  or  pretends  not  to  see  it:  we  do  all  know 
that  friendship  is  sacred,  and  yet  we  violate  it;  and  the  great- 
est libertine  expects  that  his  own  wife  should  be  honest. 

Good  counsel  is  the  most  needful  service  that  we  can  do  to 
mankind;     and    if    we    give    it    to    many,    it 
will    be    sure    to    profit    some:     for    of    many    ^°°'^  counsel  is 

trials,    some    or    other    will    undoubtedly    sue-      '   "  service 

'  .         .        ■'  we  can  do  to 

ceed.     He   that    places   a   man   m   the    posses-    mankind 

sion     of    himself    does     a     great    thing;      for 

wisdom  does  not  show  itself  so  much  in  precept  as  in  life;  in 

a  firmness  of  mind  and  a  mastery  of  appetite:    it  teaches  us 

to  do  as  well  as  to  talk:    and  to  make  our  words  and  actions 

all  of  a  colour.     If  that  fruit  be  pleasantest  which  we  gather 


ii6  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

from  a  tree  of  our  own  planting,  how  much  greater  delight 
shall  we  take  in  the  growth  and  increase  of  good  manners  of 
our  own  forming?  It  is  an  eminent  mark  of  wisdom  for  a 
man  to  be  always  like  himself.  You  shall  have  some  that 
keep  a  thrifty  table,  and  lavish  out  upon  building;  profuse 
upon  themselves,  and  forbid  to  others;  niggardly  at  home, 
and  lavish  abroad.  This  diversity  is  vicious,  and  the  effect  of 
a  dissatisfied  and  uneasy  mind;  whereas  every  wise  man 
lives  by  rule.  This  disagreement  of  purposes  arises  from 
hence,  either  that  we  do  not  propound  to  ourselves  what  we 
would  be  at;  or  if  we  do,  that  we  do  not  pursue  it,  but  pass 
from  one  thing  to  another;  and  we  do  not  only  change  nei- 
ther, but  return  to  the  very  thing  which  we  had  both  quitted 
and  condemned. 

In    all    our    undertakings,    let    us    first    examine    our    own 

strength;     the    enterprise    next;     and,    thirdly. 

Three  points  to       ^he    persons    with    whom    we    have    to    do. 

be  examined  in      r^^^   ^^^^        j^^^    j^    ^^^^    important;     for   we 

G-Lt  OUT  tlfluSTtd" 

^j„„j  are    apt    to    overvalue    ourselves,    and    reckon 

that  we  can  do  more  than  indeed  we 
can.  One  man  sets  up  for  a  speaker,  and  is  out  as  soon  as  he 
opens  his  mouth;  another  overcharges  his  estate,  perhaps, 
or  his  body:  a  bashful  man  is  not  fit  for  public  business: 
some  again  are  too  stiff  and  peremptory  for  the  court:  many 
people  are  apt  to  fly  out  in  their  anger,  nay,  and  in  a  frolic 
too;  if  any  sharp  thing  fall  in  their  way,  they  will  rather 
venture  a  neck  than  lose  a  jest.  These  people  had  better  be 
quiet  in  the  world  than  busy.  Let  him  that  is  naturally 
choleric  and  impatient  avoid  all  provocations,  and  those  af- 
fairs also  that  multiply  and  draw  on  more;  and  those  also 
from  which  there  is  no  retreat.  When  we  may  come  off  at 
pleasure,  and  fairly  hope  to  bring  our  matters  to  a  period,  it 
is  well  enough.  If  it  so  happen  that  a  man  be  tied  up  to  bu- 
siness, which  he  can  neither  loosen  nor  break  off,  let  him  ima- 
gine those  shackles  upon  his  mind  to  be  irons  upon  his  legs: 
they  are  troublesome  at  first;  but  when  there  is  no  remedy 
but  patience,  custom  makes  them  easy  to  us,  and  necessity 
gives  us  courage.  We  are  all  slaves  to  fortune:  some  only 
in  loose  and  golden  chains,  others  in  strait  ones,  and  coarser: 
nay,  and  they  that  bind  us  are  slaves  too  themselves;  some  to 
honour,  others  to  wealth;  some  to  offices,  others  to  con- 
tempt; some  to  their  superiors,  others  to  themselves:  nay, 
life  itself  is  a  servitude:   let  us  make  the  best  of  it  then,  and 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  117 

with  our  philosophy  mend  our  fortune.  Difficulties  may  be 
softened,  and  heavy  burdens  disposed  of  to  our  ease.  Let  us 
covet  nothing  out  of  our  reach,  but  content  ourselves  with 
things  hopeful  and  at  hand;  and  without  envying  the  advan- 
tages of  others:  for  greatness  stands  upon  a  craggy  precipice, 
and  it  is  much  safer  and  quieter  living  upon  a  level.  How 
many  great  men  are  forced  to  keep  their  station  upon  mere 
necessity;  because  they  find  there  is  no  coming  down  from 
it  but  headlong?  These  men  should  do  well  to  fortify  them- 
selves against  ill  consequences  by  such  virtues  and  medita- 
tions as  may  make  them  less  solicitous  for  the  future.  The 
surest  expedient  in  this  case  is  to  bound  our  desires,  and  to 
leave  nothing  to  fortune  which  we  may  keep  in  our  own 
power.  Neither  will  this  course  wholly  compose  us,  but  it 
shows  us  at  worst  the  end  of  our  troubles. 

It  is  but  a  main  point  to  take  care  that  we  propose  nothing 
but  what  is  hopeful  and   honest.     For  it  will 

be   equally   troublesome   to    us,    either   not   to    P^°P°^^  nothing 
1  1  1  J        r      I  but  what  is  bope- 

succeed,  or  to  be  ashamed  ot  the  success,  j^l  and  honest 
Wherefore  let  us  be  sure  not  to  admit  any 
ill  design  into  our  heart;  that  we  may  lift  up  pure  hands  to 
heaven,  and  ask  nothing  which  another  shall  be  a  loser  by. 
Let  us  pray  for  a  good  mind,  which  is  a  wish  to  no  man's 
injury.  I  will  remember  always  that  I  am  a  man,  and  then 
consider,  that  if  I  am  happy,  it  will  not  last  always;  if  un- 
happy, I  may  be  other  if  I  please.  I  will  carry  my  life  in  my 
hand,  and  deliver  it  up  readily  when  it  shall  be  called  for.  I 
will  have  a  care  of  being  a  slave  to  myself;  for  it  is  a  perpetu- 
al, a  shameful,  and  the  heaviest  of  all  servitudes:  and  this 
may  be  done  by  moderate  desires.  I  will  say  to  myself, 
"What  is  it  that  I  labour,  sweat,  and  solicit  for,  when  it  is 
but  very  little  that  I  want,  and  it  will  not  be  long  that  I  shall 
need  any  thing.?"  He  that  would  make  a  trial  of  the  firm- 
ness of  his  mind,  let  him  set  certain  days  apart  for  the  prac- 
tice of  his  virtues.  Let  him  mortify  himself  with  fasting, 
coarse  clothes,  and  hard  lodging;  and  then  say  to  himself, 
"Is  this  the  thing  now  that  I  was  afraid  of.^"'  In  a  state  of  se- 
curity a  man  may  thus  prepare  himself  against  hazards,  and 
in  plenty  fortify  himself  against  want.  If  you  will  have  a 
man  resolute  when  he  comes  to  the  push,  train  him  up  to  it 
before-hand.  The  soldier  does  duty  in  peace,  that  he  may 
be  in  breath  when  he  comes  to  battle.  How  many  great  and 
wise  men  have  made  experiment  of  their  moderation  by  a 


ii8  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

practice  of  abstinence,  to  the  highest  degree  of  hunger  and 
thirst;  and  convinced  themselves  that  a  man  may  fill  his 
belly  without  being  beholden  to  fortune;  which  never  denies 
any  of  us  wherewith  to  satisfy  our  necessities,  though  she  be 
never  so  angry?  It  is  as  easy  to  suffer  it  always  as  to  try  it 
once;  and  it  is  no  more  than  thousands  of  servants  and  poor 
people  do  every  day  in  their  lives.  He  that  would  live  hap- 
pily, must  neither  trust  to  good  fortune  nor  submit  to  bad: 
he  must  stand  upon  his  guard  against  all  assaults;  he  must 
stick  to  himself,  without  any  dependence  upon  other  people. 
Where  the  mind  is  tinctured  with  philosophy,  there  is  no 
place  for  grief,  anxiety,  or  superfluous  vexations.  It  is  pre- 
possessed with  virtue  to  the  neglect  of  fortune,  which  brings 
us  to  a  degree  of  security  not  to  be  disturbed.  It  is  easier  to 
give  counsel  than  to  take  it;  and  a  common  thing  for  one 
choleric  man  to  condemn  another.  We  may  be  sometimes 
earnest  in  advising,  but  not  violent  or  tedious.  Few  words, 
with  gentleness  and  efficacy,  are  best:  the  misery  is,  that  the 
wise  do  not  need  counsel,  and  fools  will  not  take  it.  A  good 
man,  it  is  true,  delights  in  it;  and  it  is  a  mark  of  folly  and 
ill-nature  to  hate  reproof.  To  a  friend  I  would  be  always 
frank  and  plain;  and  rather  fail  in  the  success  than  be  want- 
ing in  the  matter  of  faith  and  trust.  There  are  some  pre- 
cepts that  serve  in  common  both  to  the  rich  and  poor,  but 
they  are  too  general;  as,  "Cure  your  avarice,  and  the  work 
is  done."  It  is  one  thing  not  to  desire  money,  and  another 
thing  not  to  understand  how  to  use  it.  In  the  choice  of  the 
persons  we  have  to  do  withal,  we  should  see  that  they  be 
worth  our  while;  in  the  choice  of  our  business  we  are  to 
consult  nature,  and  follow  our  inclinations.  He  that  gives 
sober  advice  to  a  witty  droll  must  look  to  have  every  thing 
turned  into  ridicule.  "As  if  you  philosophers,"  says  Mar- 
cellinus,  "did  not  love  your  whores  and  your  guts  as  well  as 
other  people:"  and  then  he  tells  you  of  such  and  such  that 
were  taken  in  the  manner.  We  are  all  sick,  I  must  confess, 
and  it  is  not  for  sick  men  to  play  the  physicians;  but  it  is  yet 
lawful  for  a  man  in  an  hospital  to  discourse  of  the  common 
condition  and  distempers  of  the  place.  He  that  should  pre- 
tend to  teach  a  madman  how  to  speak,  walk,  and  behave 
himself,  were  not  he  the  most  mad  man  of  the  two.?  He  that 
directs  the  pilot,  makes  him  move  the  helm,  order  the  sails  so 
or  so,  and  makes  the  best  of  a  scant  wind,  after  this  or  that 
manner.     And  so  should  we  do  in  our  counsels.     Do  not  tell 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  119 

me  what  a  man  should  do  in  health  or  poverty,  but  show  me 
the  way  to  be  either  sound  or  rich.  Teach  me  to  master  my 
vices:  for  it  is  to  no  purpose,  so  long  as  I  am  under  their 
government,  to  tell  me  what  I  must  do  when  I  am  clear  of  it. 
In  case  of  an  avarice  a  little  eased,  a  luxury  moderated,  a 
temerity  restrained,  a  sluggish  humour  quickened;  precepts 
will  then  help  us  forward,  and  tutor  us  how  to  behave  our- 
selves. It  is  the  first  and  the  main  tie  of  a  soldier  his  military 
oath,  which  is  an  engagement  upon  him  both  of  religion  and 
honour.  In  like  manner,  he  that  pretends  to  a  happy  life 
must  first  lay  a  foundation  of  virtue,  as  a  bond  upon  him,  to 
live  and  die  true  to  that  cause.  We  do  not  find  felicity  in  the 
veins  of  the  earth  where  we  dig  for  gold,  nor  in  the  bottom 
of  the  sea  where  we  fish  for  pearl,  but  in  a  pure  and  untaint- 
ed mind,  which,  if  it  were  not  holy,  were  not  fit  to  entertain 
the  Deity.  "He  that  would  be  truly  happy,  must  think  his 
own  lot  best,  and  so  live  with  men,  as  considering  that  God 
sees  him,  and  so  speak  to  God  as  if  men  heard  him." 


CHAP.  VI 

No  felicity  like  peace  of  conscience 

"A  GOOD  conscience  is  the  testimony  of  a  good  life,  and 
the  reward  of  it."  This  is  it  that  fortifies  the  mind  against 
fortune,  when  a  man  has  gotten  the  mastery  of  his  passions; 
placed  his  treasure  and  security  within  himself;  learned  to  be 
content  with  his  condition;  and  that  death  is  no  evil  in  itself, 
but  only  the  end  of  man.  He  that  has  dedicated  his  mind  to 
virtue,  and  to  the  good  of  human  society,  whereof  he  is  a 
member,  has  consummated  all  that  is  either  profitable  or  ne- 
cessary for  him  to  know  or  to  do  toward  the  establishment  of 
his  peace.  Every  man  has  a  judge  and  a  witness  within  him- 
self of  all  good  and  ill  that  he  does,  which  inspires  us 
with  great  thoughts,  and  administers  to  us  wholesome  coun- 
sels. We  have  a  veneration  for  all  the  works  of  Nature,  the 
heads  of  rivers,  and  the  springs  of  medicinal  waters;  the 
horrors  of  groves  and  of  caves  strike  us  with  an  impression 
of  religion  and  worship.  To  see  a  man  fearless  in  dangers, 
untainted  with  lusts,  happy  in  adversity,  composed  in  a  tu- 
mult,  and  laughing  at  all   those   things  which   are  generally 


120  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

either  coveted  or  feared;  all  men  must  acknowledge  that 
this  can  be  nothing  else  but  a  beam  of  divinity  that  influences 
a  mortal  body.  And  this  is  it  that  carries  us  to  the  disquisi- 
tion of  things  divine  and  human;  what  the  state  of  the  world 
was  before  the  distribution  of  the  first  matter  into  parts; 
what  power  it  was  that  drew  order  out  of  that  confusion,  and 
gave  laws  both  to  the  whole,  and  to  every  particle  thereof; 
what  that  space  is  beyond  the  world;  and  whence  proceed 
the  several  operations  of  nature.  Shall  any  man  see  the 
glory  and  order  of  the  universe;  so  many  scattered  parts 
and  qualities  wrought  into  one  mass;  such  a  medley  of  things, 
which  are  yet  distinguished:  the  world  enlightened,  and  the 
disorders  of  it  so  wonderfully  regulated;  and  shall  he  not 
consider  the  Author  and  Disposer  of  all  this;  and  whither  we 
ourselves  shall  go,  when  our  souls  shall  be  delivered  from  the 
slavery  of  our  flesh!  The  whole  creation  we  see  conforms  to 
the  dictates  of  Providence,  and  follows  God  both  as  a  go- 
vernor and  as  a  guide.  A  great,  a  good,  and  a  right  mind,  is  a 
kind  of  divinity  lodged  in  flesh,  and  may  be  the  blessing  of  a 
slave  as  well  as  of  a  prince;  it  came  from  heaven,  and  to  hea- 
ven it  must  return;  and  it  is  a  kind  of  heavenly  felicity,  which 
a  pure  and  virtuous  mind  enjoys,  in  some  degree,  even  upon 
earth:  whereas  temples  of  honour  are  but  empty  names, 
which,  probably,  owe  their  beginning  either  to  ambition  or 
to  violence.  I  am  strangely  transported  with  the  thoughts  of 
eternity;  nay,  with  the  belief  of  it;  for  I  have  a  profound 
veneration  for  the  opinions  of  great  men,  especially  when 
they  promise  things  so  much  to  my  satisfaction:  for  they  do 
promise  them,  though  they  do  not  prove  them.  In  the  ques- 
tion of  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  it  goes  very  far  with  me, 
a  general  consent  to  the  opinion  of  a  future  reward  and  pu- 
nishment; which  meditation  raises  me  to  the  contempt  of 
this  life,  in  hopes  of  a  better.  But  still,  though  we  know  that 
we  have  a  soul;  yet  what  the  soul  is,  how,  and  from  whence, 
we  are  utterly  ignorant:  this  only  we  understand,  that  all 
the  good  and  ill  we  do  is  under  the  dominion  of  the  mind; 
that  a  clear  conscience  states  us  in  an  inviolable  peace;  and 
that  the  greatest  blessing  in  Nature  is  that  which  every  honest 
man  may  bestow  upon  himself.  The  body  is  but  the  clog  and 
prisoner  of  the  mind;  tossed  up  and  down,  and  persecuted 
with  punishments,  violences,  and  diseases;  but  the  mind  it- 
self is  sacred  and  eternal,  and  exempt  from  the  danger  of  all 
actual  impression. 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  121 

Provided  that  we  look  to  our  consciences,  no  matter  for 
opinion:   let  me  deserve  well,  though  I  hear  ill. 
The  common  people  take  stomach  and  auda-    Every  man's 
_        ,  1         r  •     •  II  conscience  is 

city  for  the  marks  oi  magnanimity  and  honour;    ^^ij  judge 

and  if  a  man  be  soft  and  modest,  they  look 
upon  him  as  an  easy  fop;  but  when  they  come  once  to  ob- 
serve the  dignity  of  his  mind  in  the  equality  and  firmness  of 
his  actions,  and  that  his  external  quiet  is  founded  upon  an  in- 
ternal peace,  the  very  same  people  have  him  in  esteem  and 
admiration:  for  there  is  no  man  but  approves  of  virtue, 
though  but  few  pursue  it;  we  see  where  it  is,  but  we  dare  not 
venture  to  come  at  it:  and  the  reason  is,  we  overvalue  that 
which  we  must  quit  to  obtain  it.  A  good  conscience  fears 
no  witnesses,  but  a  guilty  conscience  is  solicitous  even  in  sol- 
itude. If  we  do  nothing  but  what  is  honest,  let  all  the  world 
know  it;  but  if  otherwise,  what  does  it  signify  to  have  no 
body  else  know  it,  so  long  as  I  know  it  myself.?  Miserable  is 
he  that  slights  that  witness!  Wickedness,  it  is  true,  may  es- 
cape the  law,  but  not  the  conscience:  for  a  private  convic- 
tion is  the  first  and  the  greatest  punishment  of  offenders;  so 
that  sin  plagues  itself;  and  the  fear  of  vengeance  pursues 
even  those  that  escape  the  stroke  of  it.  It  were  ill  for  good 
men  that  iniquity  may  so  easily  evade  the  law,  the  judge, 
and  the  execution,  if  Nature  had  not  set  up  torments  and 
gibbets  in  the  consciences  of  transgressors.  He  that  is  guilty 
lives  in  perpetual  terror;  and  while  he  expects  to  be  punish- 
ed, he  punishes  himself;  and  whosoever  deserves  it  expects 
it.  What  if  he  be  not  detected.?  he  is  still  in  apprehension 
yet  that  he  may  be  so.  His  sleeps  are  painful,  and  never 
secure;  and  he  cannot  speak  of  another  man's  wickedness 
without  thinking  of  his  own;  whereas  a  good  conscience  is 
a  continual  feast.  Those  are  the  only  certain  and  profitable 
delights,  which  arise  from  the  conscience  of  a  well-acted 
life;  no  matter  for  noise  abroad,  so  long  as  we  are  quiet 
within:  but  if  our  passions  be  seditious,  that  is  enough  to 
keep  us  waking  without  any  other  tumult.  It  is  not  the  pos- 
ture of  the  body,  or  the  composure  of  the  bed,  that  will 
give  rest  to  an  uneasy  mind:  there  is  an  impatient  sloth  that 
may  be  roused  by  action,  and  the  vices  of  laziness  must  be 
cured  by  business.  True  happiness  is  not  to  be  found  in  ex- 
cesses of  wine,  or  of  women,  or  in  the  largest  prodigalities 
of  fortune;    what  she  has  given  me,  she  may  take  away,  but 


122  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

she  shall  not  tear  it  from  me;  and,  so  long  as  it  does  not  grow 
to  me,  I  can  part  with  it  without  pain.  He  that  would  per- 
fectly know  himself,  let  him  set  aside  his  money,  his  fortune, 
his  dignity,  and  examine  himself  naked,  without  being  put  to 
learn  from  others  the  knowledge  of  himself. 

It  is  dangerous  for  a  man  too  suddenly,  or  too  easily,  to 

believe    himself.     Wherefore    let    us    examine, 

et  every  man        watch,      observe,      and      inspect      our      own 

examine  himself      i  r  i 

hearts;  tor  we  ourselves  are  our  own 
greatest  flatterers:  we  should  every  night  call  ourselves  to 
account,  "What  infirmity  have  I  mastered  to-day?  what 
passion  opposed?  what  temptation  resisted?  what  virtue 
acquired?"  Our  vices  will  abate  of  themselves,  if  they  be 
brought  every  day  to  the  shrift.  Oh  the  blessed  sleep  that 
follows  such  a  diary!  Oh  the  tranquillity,  liberty,  and  great- 
ness of  that  mind  that  is  a  spy  upon  itself,  and  a  private  cen- 
sor of  its  own  manners!  It  is  my  custom  (says  our  author) 
every  night,  so  soon  as  the  candle  is  out,  to  run  over  all  the 
words  and  actions  of  the  past  day;  and  I  let  nothing  escape 
me;  for  why  should  I  fear  the  sight  of  my  own  errors,  when 
I  can  admonish  and  forgive  myself?  "I  was  a  little  too  hot 
in  such  a  dispute:  my  opinion  might  have  been  as  well  spared, 
for  it  gave  offence,  and  did  no  good  at  all.  The  thing  was 
true,  but  all  truths  are  not  to  be  spoken  at  all  times;  I  would 
I  had  held  my  tongue,  for  there  is  no  contending  either  with 
fools  or  our  superiors.  I  have  done  ill,  but  it  shall  be  so  no 
more."  If  every  man  would  but  thus  look  into  himself,  it 
would  be  the  better  for  us  all.  What  can  be  more  reasonable 
than  this  daily  review  of  a  life  that  we  cannot  warrant  for  a 
moment?  Our  fate  is  set,  and  the  first  breath  we  draw  is  only 
the  first  motion  toward  our  last:  one  cause  depends  upon 
another;  and  the  course  of  all  things,  public  and  private,  is 
but  a  long  connexion  of  Providential  appointments.  There 
is  a  great  variety  in  our  lives,  but  all  tends  to  the  same  issue. 
Nature  may  use  her  own  bodies  as  she  pleases;  but  a  good 
man  has  this  consolation,  that  nothing  perishes  which  he  can 
call  his  own.  It  is  a  great  comfort  that  we  are  only  condemn- 
ed to  the  same  fate  with  the  universe;  the  heavens  them- 
selves are  mortal  as  well  as  our  bodies;  Nature  has  made  us 
passive,  and  to  sujfFer  is  our  lot.  While  we  are  in  flesh,  every 
man  has  his  chain  and  his  clog,  only  it  is  looser  and  lighter  to 
one  man  than  to  another;  and  he  is  more  at  ease  that  takes  it 
up  and  carries  it  than  he  that  drags  it.     We  are  born,  to  lose 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  123 

and  to  perish,  to  hope,  and  to  fear,  to  vex  ourselves  and 
others;  and  there  is  no  antidote  against  a  common  calamity 
but  virtue;  for  "the  foundation  of  true  joy  is  in  the  con- 
science." 


CHAP.  VII 

A  good  man  can  never  he  miserable,  nor  a  wicked  man 

happy 

There  is  not  in  the  scale  of  nature  a  more  inseparable  con- 
nexion of  cause  and  effect,  than  in  the  case  of  happiness  and 
virtue:  nor  any  thing  that  more  naturally  produces  the  one, 
or  more  necessarily  presupposes  the  other.  For  what  is  it  to 
be  happy,  but  for  a  man  to  content  himself  with  his  lot,  in  a 
cheerful  and  quiet  resignation  to  the  appointments  of  God.? 
All  the  actions  of  our  lives  ought  to  be  governed  with  respect 
to  good  and  evil;  and  it  is  only  reason  that  distinguishes;  by 
which  reason  we  are  in  such  manner  influenced,  as  if  a  ray  of 
the  Divinity  were  dipt  in  a  mortal  body  and  that  is  the  perfec- 
tion of  mankind.  It  is  true,  we  have  not  the  eyes  of  eagles 
or  the  sagacity  of  hounds:  nor  if  we  had,  could  we  pretend  to 
value  ourselves  upon  any  thing  which  we  have  in  common 
with  brutes.  What  are  we  the  better  for  that  which  is  foreign 
to  us,  and  may  be  given  and  taken  away?  As  the  beams  of  the 
sun  irradiate  the  earth,  and  yet  remain  where  they  were;  so 
is  it  in  some  proportion  with  an  holy  mind  that  illustrates  all 
our  actions,  and  yet  it  adheres  to  its  original.  Why  do  we  not 
as  well  commend  a  horse  for  his  glorious  trappings,  as  a  man 
for  his  pompous  additions. f*  How  much  a  braver  creature  is  a 
lion,  (which  by  nature  ought  to  be  fierce  and  terrible)  how 
much  braver  (I  say)  in  his  natural  horror  than  in  his  chains? 
so  that  every  thing  in  its  pure  nature  pleases  us  best.  It  is  not 
health,  nobility,  riches,  that  can  justify  a  wicked  man:  nor 
is  it  the  want  of  all  these  that  can  discredit  a  good  one.  That 
is  the  sovereign  blessing,  which  makes  the  possessor  of  it 
valuable  without  any  thing  else,  and  him  that  wants  it  con- 
temptible, though  he  had  all  the  world  besides.  It  is  not  the 
painting,  gilding,  or  carving,  that  makes  a  good  ship;  but  if 
she  be  a  nimble  sailer,  tight  and  strong  to  endure  the  seas; 
that  is  her  excellency.     It  is  the  edge  and  temper  of  the  blade 


124  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

that  makes  a  good  sword,  not  the  richness  of  the  scabbard :  and 
so  it  is  not  money  or  possessions,  that  makes  a  man  consider- 
able, but  his  virtue. 

It  is  every  man's  duty  to  make  himself  profitable  to  man- 
kind:   if  he  can,  to   many;    if  not,  to   fewer; 
A  good  man  Jf    not    SO    neither,    to     his    neighbour;    but, 

makes  himself        however,    to   himself.     There    are   two   repub- 

■profitable  to  , .  ^  i  •   r      •       r 

mankind  "^s;     a    great    one,    which    is    human    nature, 

and  a  less,  which  is  the  place  where  we  were 
born:  some  serve  both  at  a  time,  some  only  the  greater,  and 
some  again  only  the  less:  the  greater  may  be  served  in  priva- 
cy, solitude,  contemplation,  and  perchance  that  way  better 
than  any  other;  but  it  was  the  intent  of  nature,  however,  that 
we  should  serve  both.  A  good  man  may  serve  the  public,  his 
friend,  and  himself,  in  any  station:  if  he  be  not  for  the  sword, 
let  him  take  the  gown;  if  the  bar  does  not  agree  with  him,  let 
him  try  the  pulpit:  if  he  be  silenced  abroad,  let  him  give  coun- 
sel at  home,  and  discharge  the  part  of  a  faithful  friend  and  a 
temperate  companion.  When  he  is  no  longer  a  citizen,  he  is 
yet  a  man;  but  the  whole  world  is  his  country,  and  human 
nature  never  wants  matter  to  work  upon:  but  if  nothing  will 
serve  a  man  in  the  civil  government  unless  he  be  prime  minister, 
or  in  the  field  but  to  command  in  chief ,  it  is  his  own  fault. 
The  common  soldier,  where  he  cannot  use  his  hands,  fights 
with  his  looks,  his  example,  his  encouragement,  his  voice,  and 
stands  his  ground  even  when  he  has  lost  his  hands,  and  does 
service  too  with  his  very  clamour;  so  that,  in  any  condition 
whatsoever,  he  still  discharges  the  duty  of  a  good  patriot. 
Nay,  he  that  spends  his  time  well,  even  in  a  retirement,  gives  a 
great  example.  We  may  enlarge  indeed,  or  contract,  accord- 
ing to  the  circumstances  of  time,  place,  or  abilities,  but, 
above  all  things,  we  must  be  sure  to  keep  ourselves  in  action; 
for  he  that  is  slothful  is  dead  even  while  he  lives.  Was  there 
ever  any  state  so  desperate  as  that  of  Athens  under  the  thirty 
tyrants;  where  it  was  capital  to  be  honest,  and  the  senate 
house  was  turned  into  a  college  of  hangmen  ?  Never  was  any 
government  so  wretched  and  so  hopeless;  and  yet  Socrates, 
at  the  same  time  preached  temperance  to  the  tyrants,  and  cour- 
age to  the  rest,  and  afterwards  died  an  eminent  example 
of  faith  and  resolution,  and  a  sacrifice  for  the  common 
good. 

It  is  not  for  a  wise  man  to  stand  shifting  and  fencing  with 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  125 

Fortune,   but  to  oppose   her  bare   faced;    for 

he   is   sufficiently   convinced   that   she   can   do    't"^  tnjuries  of 

,  .  ,  p,!  ,  ,  •  rortune  do  not 

him  no  hurt.^  She  may  take  away  his  ser-  effect  the  mind 
vants,  possessions,  dignity,  assault  his  body, 
put  out  his  eyes,  cut  off  his  hands,  and  strip  him  of  all  the  ex- 
ternal comforts  of  life.  But  what  does  all  this  amount  to  more 
than  the  recalling  of  a  trust  which  he  has  received,  with  condi- 
tion to  deliver  it  up  again  upon  demand?  He  looks  upon 
himself  as  precarious,  and  only  lent  to  himself,  and  yet  he 
does  not  value  himself  ever  the  less,  because  he  is  not  his  own, 
but  takes  such  care  as  an  honest  man  should  do  of  a  thing 
that  is  committed  to  him  in  trust.  Whensoever  he  that  lent 
me  myself,  and  what  I  have,  shall  call  for  all  back  again,  it  is 
not  a  loss,  but  a  restitution:  and  I  must  willingly  deliver  up 
what  most  undeservedly  was  bestowed  upon  me;  and  it 
will  become  me  to  return  my  mind  better  than  I  receiv- 
ed it. 

Demetrius,  upon  the  taking  of  Megara,  asked  Stilpo  the 
philosopher    what    he    had    lost.     "Nothing," 
says  he,  "for  I  had  all  that  I  could  call  my    ^  z^nero^^  in- 
u^  "AJ^^u  uj     stance  of  a  con- 

own    about    me.       And    yet    the    enemy    had      .„^.     '•. 

then  made  himselt  master  or  his  patrimony,  his 
children,  and  his  country:  but  these  he  looked  upon  as  only 
adventitious  goods,  and  under  the  command  of  fortune.  Now, 
he  that  neither  lost  any  thing,  nor  feared  any  thing,  in  a  public 
ruin,  but  was  safe  and  at  peace  in  the  middle  of  the  flames, 
and  in  the  heat  of  a  military  intemperance  and  fury,  what 
violence  or  provocation  imaginable  can  put  such  a  man  as 
this  out  of  the  possession  of  himself?  Walls  and  castles  may 
be  mined  and  battered,  but  there  is  no  art  or  engine  that  can 
subvert  a  steady  mind.  "I  have  made  my  way,"  says  Stilpo, 
"through  fire  and  blood;  what  is  become  of  my  children,  I 
know  not;  but  these  are  transitory  blessings,  and  servants 
that  are  condemned  to  change  their  masters;  what  was  my 
own  before,  is  my  own  still:  some  have  lost  their  estates, 
others  their  dear-bought  mistresses,  their  commissions  and 
offices:  the  usurers  have  lost  their  bonds  and  securities;  but, 
Demetrius,  for  my  part  I  have  saved  all:  and  do  not  imagine, 
after  all  this,  either  that  Demetrius  is  a  conqueror,  or  that 
Stilpo  is  overcome;  it  is  only  thy  fortune  has  been  too  hard 
for  mine."  Alexander  took  Babylon,  Scipio  took  Carthage, 
the  capitol  was  burnt;    but  there  is  no  fire  or  violence  that 


126  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

can  discompose  a  generous  mind.  And  let  us  not  take  this 
character  neither  for  a  chimera;  for  all  ages  afford  some, 
though  not  many,  instances  of  this  elevated  virtue.  A  good 
man  does  his  duty,  let  it  be  never  so  painful,  so  hazardous,  or 
never  so  great  a  loss  to  him;  and  it  is  not  all  the  money,  the 
power,  and  the  pleasure  in  the  world;  not  any  force  of  ne- 
cessity, that  can  make  him  wicked:  he  considers  what  he  is 
to  do,  not  what  he  is  to  suffer,  and  will  keep  on  his  course, 
though  there  should  be  nothing  but  gibbets  and  torments  in 
the  way.  And  in  this  instance  of  Stilpo,  who,  when  he  had 
lost  his  country,  his  wife,  his  children,  the  town  on  fire  over 
his  head,  himself  escaping  very  hardly  and  naked  out  of  the 
flames;  "I  have  saved  all  my  goods,"  says  he,  "my  justice, 
my  courage,  my  temperance,  my  prudence;"  accounting 
nothing  his  own,  or  valuable,  and  showing  how  much  easier 
it  was  to  overcome  a  nation  than  one  wise  man.  It  is  a 
certain  mark  of  a  brave  mind  not  to  be  moved  by  any  acci- 
dents: the  upper  region  of  the  air  admits  neither  clouds  nor 
tempests;  the  thunder,  storms,  and  meteors,  are  formed 
below;  and  this  is  the  difference  betwixt  a  mean  and  an  ex- 
alted mind:  the  former  is  rude  and  tumultuary;  the  latter 
is  modest,  venerable,  composed,  and  always  quiet  in  its  sta- 
tion. In  brief,  it  is  the  conscience  that  pronounces  upon  the 
man  whether  he  be  happy  or  miserable.  But,  though  sacri- 
lege and  adultery  be  generally  condemned,  how  many  are 
there  still  that  do  not  so  much  as  blush  at  the  one,  and  in 
truth  that  take  a  glory  in  the  other?  For  nothing  is  more 
common  than  for  great  thieves  to  ride  in  triumph  when  the 
little  ^nes  are  punished.  But  let  "wickedness  escape  as  it 
may  ?t  the  bar,  it  never  fails  of  doing  justice  upon  itself;  for 
every  guilty  person  is  his  own  hangman." 


CHAP.  VIII 

The  due  contemplation  of  Divine  Providence  is  the 
certain  cure  of  all  misfortunes 

Whoever  observes  the  world,  and  the  order  of  it,  will  find 
all  the  motions  in  it  to  be  only  vicissitude  of  falling  and  rising; 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  127 

nothing  extinguished,  and  even  those  things  which  seem  to  us 
to  perish  are  in  truth  but  changed.  The  seasons  go  and  return, 
day  and  night  follow  in  their  courses,  the  heavens  roll,  and 
Nature  goes  on  with  her  work:  all  things  succeed  in  their 
turns,  storms  and  calms;  the  law  of  Nature  will  have  it  so, 
which  we  must  follow  and  obey,  accounting  all  things  that 
are  done  to  be  well  done:  so  that  what  we  cannot  mend  we 
must  suffer,  and  wait  upon  Providence  without  repining.  It 
is  the  part  of  a  cowardly  soldier  to  follow  his  commander 
groaning;  but  a  generous  man  delivers  himself  up  to  God 
without  struggling;  and  it  is  only  for  a  narrow  mind  to  con- 
demn the  order  of  the  world,  and  to  propound  rather  the 
mending  of  Nature  than  of  himself.  No  man  has  any  cause 
of  complaint  against  Providence,  if  that  which  is  right  pleases 
him.  Those  glories  that  appear  fair  to  the  eye,  their  lustre  is 
but  false  and  superficial;  and  they  are  only  vanity  and  delu- 
sion: they  are  rather  the  goods  of  a  dream  than  a  substantial 
possession:  they  may  cozen  us  at  a  distance,  but  bring  them 
once  to  the  touch,  they  are  rotten  and  counterfeit.  There 
are  no  greater  wretches  in  the  world  than  many  of  those  which 
the  people  take  to  be  happy.  Those  are  the  only  true  and 
incorruptible  comforts  that  will  abide  all  trials;  and  the  more 
we  turn  and  examine  them,  the  more  valuable  we  find  them; 
and  the  greatest  felicity  of  all  is,  not  to  stand  in  need  of  any. 
What  is  poverty?  no  man  lives  so  poor  as  he  was  born.  What 
is  pain?  It  will  either  have  an  end  itself,  or  make  an  end  of  us. 
In  short,  Fortune  has  no  weapon  that  reaches  the  mind:  but 
the  bounties  of  Providence  are  certain  and  permanent  bless- 
ings; and  they  are  the  greater  and  the  better,  the  longer  we  con- 
sider them;  that  is  to  say,  "the  power  of  contemning  things 
terrible,  and  despising  what  the  common  people  covet."  In 
the  very  methods  of  Nature  we  cannot  but  observe  the  regard 
that  Providence  had  to  the  good  of  mankind,  even  in  the  dis- 
position of  the  world,  in  providing  so  amply  for  our  mainte- 
nance and  satisfaction.  It  is  not  possible  for  us  to  comprehend 
what  the  Power  is  which  has  made  all  things:  some  few  sparks 
of  that  Divinity  are  discovered,  but  infinitely  the  greater  part 
of  it  lies  hid.  We  are  all  of  us,  however,  thus  far  agreed,  first, 
in  the  acknowledgment  and  belief  of  that  almighty  Being; 
and,  secondly,  that  we  are  to  ascribe  to  it  all  majesty  and  good- 
ness. 

"If  there  be  a  Providence,"  say  some,  "how  comes  it  to 


128  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

pass  that  good  men  labour  under  affliction  and 
How  comes  it  adversity,  and  wicked  men  enjoy  themselves 
that  good  men  Jn  ease  and  plenty?"  My  answer  is,  That  God 
are  afflicted  in  deals  by  US  as  a  good  father  does  by  his  chil- 
this  world,  and  ,  ,        ^  •  i_       u      j  ^    c^ 

'  k  d  men  dren;   he  tries  us,  he  hardens  us,  and  hts  us 

prosper?  for   himself.     He    keeps    a    strict    hand    over 

those  that  he  loves,  and  by  the  rest  he  does  as 
we  do  by  our  slaves;  he  lets  them  go  on  in  licence  and  boldness. 
As  the  master  gives  his  most  hopeful  scholars  the  hardest  les- 
sons, so  does  God  deal  with  the  most  generous  spirits;  and 
the  cross  encounters  of  Fortune  we  are  not  to  look  upon  as 
a  cruelty,  but  as  a  contest:  the  familiarity  of  dangers  brings  us 
to  the  contempt  of  them,  and  that  part  is  strongest  which  is 
most  exercised:  the  seaman's  hand  is  callous,  the  soldier's 
arm  is  strong,  and  the  tree  that  is  most  exposed  to  the  wind 
takes  the  best  root:  there  are  people  that  live  in  a  perpetual 
winter,  in  extremity  of  frost  and  penury,  where  a  cave,  a  lock 
of  straw,  or  a  few  leaves,  is  all  their  covering,  and  wild  beasts 
their  nourishment;  all  this  by  custom  in  not  only  made  tolera- 
ble, but  when  it  is  once  taken  up  upon  necessity,  by  little  and 
little,  it  becomes  pleasant  to  them.  Why  should  we  then 
count  that  condition  of  life  a  calamity  which  is  the  lot  of  many 
nations?  There  is  no  state  of  life  so  miserable  but  there  are  in 
it  remissions,  diversions,  nay,  and  delights  too;  such  as  the 
benignity  of  Nature  towards  us,  even  in  the  severest  accidents 
of  human  life.  There  were  no  living  if  adversity  should  hold 
on  as  it  begins,  and  keep  up  the  force  of  the  first  impression. 
We  are  apt  to  murmur  at  many  things  as  great  evils,  that  have 
nothing  at  all  of  evil  in  them  beside  the  complaint,  which  we 
should  more  reasonably  take  up  against  ourselves.  If  I  be 
sick,  it  is  part  of  my  fate;  and  for  other  calamities,  they  are 
usual  things;  they  ought  to  be;  nay,  which  is  more,  they 
must  be,  for  they  come  by  divine  appointment.  So  that  we 
should  not  only  submit  to  God,  but  assent  to  him,  and  obey 
him  out  of  duty,  even  if  there  were  no  necessity.  All  those 
terrible  appearances  that  make  us  groan  and  tremble  are  but 
the  tribute  of  life;  we  are  neither  to  wish,  nor  to  ask,  nor  to 
hope  to  escape  them;  for  it  is  a  kind  of  dishonesty  to  pay  a 
tribute  unwillingly.  Am  I  troubled  with  the  stone,  or  afflict- 
ed with  continual  losses?  nay,  is  my  body  in  danger?  All 
this  is  no  more  than  what  I  prayed  for  when  I  prayed  for  old 
age.  All  these  things  are  as  familiar  in  a  long  life,  as  dust  and 
dirt  in  a  long  way.     Life  is  a  warfare;    and  what  brave  man 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  129 

would  not  rather  choose  to  be  In  a  tent  than  in  shambles?  For- 
tune does  like  a  swordsman,  she  scorns  to  encounter  a  fearful 
man:  there  is  no  honour  in  the  victory  where  there  is  no  dan- 
ger in  the  way  to  it:  she  tries  Mucius  by  fire;  RutiHus  by 
exile;  Socrates  by  poison;  Cato  by  death.  It  is  only  an  ad- 
verse fortune,  and  in  bad  times,  that  we  find  great  examples. 
Mucius  thought  himself  happier  with  his  hand  in  the  flame, 
than  if  it  had  been  in  the  bosom  of  his  mistress.  Fabricus 
took  more  pleasure  in  eating  the  roots  of  his  own  planting 
than  in  all  the  dehcacies  of  luxury  and  expense.  Shall  we  call 
Rutilius  miserable,  whom  his  very  enemies  have  adored?  who, 
upon  a  glorious  and  a  public  principle,  chose  rather  to  lose  his 
country  than  to  return  from  banishment?  the  only  man  that 
denied  any  thing  to  Sylla  the  dictator,  who  recalled  him.  Nor 
did  he  only  refuse  to  come,  but  drew  himself  further  off:  "Let 
them,"  says  he,  "that  think  banishment  a  misfortune,  live 
slaves  at  Rome,  under  the  imperial  cruelties  of  Sylla:  he  that 
sets  a  price  upon  the  heads  of  senators;  and  after  a  law  of  his 
own  institution  against  cut-throats,  becomes  the  greatest  him- 
self." Is  it  not  better  for  a  man  to  live  in  exile  abroad  than  to 
be  massacred  at  home?  In  suffering  for  virtue,  it  is  not  the 
torment  but  the  cause,  that  we  are  to  consider;  and  the  more 
pain,  the  more  renown.  When  any  hardship  befals  us,  we 
must  look  upon  it  as  an  act  of  Providence,  which  many  times 
suffers  particulars  to  be  wounded  for  the  conservation  of  the 
whole:  beside  that,  God  chastises  some  people  under  an  ap- 
pearance of  blessing  them,  turning  their  prosperity  to  their 
ruin  as  a  punishment  for  abusing  his  goodness.  And  we 
are  further  to  consider,  that  many  a  good  man  is  afflicted, 
only  to  teach  others  to  suffer;  for  we  are  born  for  example; 
and  likewise  that  where  men  are  contumacious  and  refrac- 
tory, it  pleases  God  many  times  to  cure  greater  evils  by  less, 
and  to  turn  our  miseries  to  our  advantage. 

How   many   casualties    and    difficulties    are    there   that    we 
dread      as      insupportable      mischiefs,      which, 

upon    farther    thoughts,    we    find    to    be    mer-    Pjo^^dence 

,     ,  r      1  I        •  I  draws  good  out 

cies    and    benefits?     as    banishment,    poverty,    ^f ^^^ 

loss     of    relations,     sickness,     disgrace.     Some 

are  cured  by  the  lance;    by  fire,  hunger,  thirst;    taking  out  of 

bones,  lopping  off  limbs,  and  the  like:    nor  do  we  only  fear 

things  that  are  many  times  beneficial  to  us;    but,  on  the  other 

side,  we  hanker  after  and  pursue  things  that  are  deadly  and 


I30  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

pernicious:  we  are  poisoned  in  the  very  pleasures  of  our 
luxury,  and  betrayed  to  a  thousand  diseases  by  the  indulging 
of  our  palate.  To  lose  a  child  or  a  limb,  is  only  to  part  with 
what  we  have  received,  and  Nature  may  do  what  she  pleases 
with  her  own.  We  are  frail  ourselves,  and  we  have  received 
things  transitory:  that  which  was  given  us  may  be  taken 
away;  calamity  tries  virtue  as  the  fire  does  gold:  nay,  he 
that  lives  most  at  ease,  is  only  delayed,  not  dismissed,  and 
his  portion  is  to  come.  When  we  are  visited  with  sickness 
or  other  afflictions,  we  are  not  to  murmur  as  if  we  were  ill 
used:  it  is  a  mark  of  the  general's  esteem,  when  he  puts  us 
upon  a  post  of  danger:  we  do  not  say.  My  captain  uses  me 
ill;  but  he  does  me  honour;  and  so  should  we  say  that  are 
commanded  to  encounter  difficulties,  for  this  is  our  case  with 
God  Almighty. 

What    was    Regulus    the    worse,    because    Fortune    made 

choice  of  him   for  an   eminent  instance   both 

Calamity Js  the      ^f     f^-^j^     ^^^     patience?    He     was     thrown 

trial  of  virtue  .  r  t  i  •  i  •         i 

mto    a    case    or    wood    stuck    with     pomted 

nails,  so  that  which  way  soever  he  turned  his  body,  it  rested 
upon  his  wounds;  his  eye-lids  were  cut  off  to  keep  him 
waking;  and  yet  Mecaenas  was  not  happier  upon  his  hed 
than  Regulus  upon  his  torments.  Nay,  the  world  is  not  yet 
grown  so  wicked  as  not  to  prefer  Regulus  before  Mecaenas: 
and  can  any  man  take  that  to  be  an  evil  of  which  Providence 
accounted  this  brave  man  worthy?  "It  has  pleased  God," 
says  he,  "to  single  me  out  for  an  experiment  of  the  force  of 
human  nature."  No  man  knows  his  own  strength  or  value 
but  by  being  put  to  the  proof.  The  pilot  is  tried  in  a  storm;  the 
soldier  in  a  battle;  the  rich  man  knows  not  how  to  behave 
himself  in  poverty:  he  that  has  lived  in  popularity  and  ap- 
plause, knows  not  how  he  would  bear  infamy  and  reproach: 
nor  he  that  never  had  children  how  he  would  bear  the  loss 
of  them.  Calamity  is  the  occasion  of  virtue,  and  a  spur  to 
a  great  mind.  The  very  apprehension  of  a  wound  startles  a 
man  when  he  first  bears  arms;  but  an  old  soldier  bleeds 
boldly,  because  he  knows  that  a  man  may  loose  blood,  and 
yet  win  the  day.  Nay,  many  times  a  calamity  turns  to  our 
advantage;  and  great  ruins  have  but  made  way  to  greater 
glories.  The  crying  out  oi  fire  has  many  times  quieted  a  fray, 
and  the  interposing  of  a  wild  beast  has  parted  the  thief  and 
the  traveller;    for  we   are   not   at  leisure   for  less  mischiefs 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  131 

while  we  are  under  the  apprehensions  of  greater.     One  man's 

hfe  is  saved  by  a  disease:    another  is  arrested,  and  taken  out 

of  the  way,  just  when  his  house  was  faUing  upon  his  head. 

To  show  now  that  the  favours  or  the  crosses  of  fortune, 

and   the   accidents   of  sickness   and   of  health, 

are  neither  good  nor  evil,  God   permits  them    ^^"'^^^^^  ^J^ 
•     i-rr-  111  1  1         •!  <tT       neither  good 

mdifterentiy  both  to  good  and  evil  men.        It    ^^^  ^^^^ 

is  hard,"  you  will  say,  "for  a  virtuous  man 
to  suffer  all  sorts  of  misery,  and  for  a  wicked  man  not  only 
to  go  free,  but  to  enjoy  himself  at  pleasure."  And  is  it  not 
the  same  thing  for  men  of  prostituted  impudence  and  wick- 
edness to  sleep  in  a  whole  skin,  when  men  of  honour  and 
honesty  bear  arms,  lie  in  the  trenches,  and  receive  wounds? 
or  for  the  vestal  virgins  to  rise  in  the  night  to  their  prayers, 
when  common  strumpets  lie  stretching  themselves  in  their 
beds?  We  should  rather  say  with  Demetrius,  "If  I  had 
known  the  will  of  Heaven  before  I  was  called  to  it,  I  would 
have  offered  myself,"  If  it  be  the  pleasure  of  God  to  take 
my  children,  I  have  brought  them  up  to  that  end:  if  my  for- 
tune, any  part  of  my  body,  or  my  life,  I  would  rather  present 
it  than  yield  it  up:  I  am  ready  to  part  with  all,  and  to  suffer 
all;  for  I  know  that  nothing  comes  to  pass  but  what  God  ap- 
points: our  fate  is  decreed,  and  things  do  not  so  much  hap- 
pen, as  in  their  due  time  proceed,  and  every  man's  portion  of 
joy  and  sorrow  is  predetermined. 

There  is  nothing  falls   amiss  to  a  good  man  that  can   be 
charged     upon     Providence;      for    wicked     ac- 
tions,    lewd      thoughts,      ambitious      projects,    Nothing  that  is 
blind  lusts,  and  insatiable  avarice,  against  all  H/^/^J 

these  he  is  armed  by  the  benefit  of  reason:  good  man 
and  do  we  expect  now  that  God  should  look 
to  our  luggage  too?  (I  mean  our  bodies:)  Demetrius  dis- 
charged himself  of  his  treasure,  as  the  clog  and  burden  of 
his  mind.  Shall  we  wonder  then,  if  God  suffers  that  to  befal 
a  good  man,  which  a  good  man  sometimes  does  to  himself? 
I  lose  a  son,  and  why  not?  when  it  may  some  time  so  fall  out 
that  I  myself  may  kill  him.  Suppose  he  be  banished  by  an 
order  of  state;  is  it  not  the  same  thing  with  a  man's  volunta- 
rily leaving  of  his  country,  and  never  to  return?  Many  af- 
flictions may  befal  a  good  man,  but  no  evil;  for  contraries 
will  never  incorporate:  all  the  rivers  in  the  world  are  never 
able  to  change  the  taste  or  quality  of  the  sea.  Prudence  and 
religion   are    above   accidents,    and    draw   good   out  of  every 


132  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

thing;  affliction  keeps  a  man  in  use,  and  makes  him  strong, 
patient,  and  hardy.  Providence  treats  us  like  a  generous 
father,  and  brings  us  up  to  labours,  toils,  and  dangers; 
whereas  the  indulgence  of  a  fond  mother  makes  us  weak  and 
spiritless.  God  loves  us  with  a  masculine  love,  and  turns  us 
loose  to  injuries  and  indignities:  he  takes  delight  to  see  a 
brave  and  a  good  man  wrestling  with  evil  fortune,  and  yet 
keeping  himself  upon  his  legs,  when  the  whole  world  is  in 
disorder  about  him.  And  are  not  we  ourselves  delighted,  to 
see  a  bold  fellow  press  with  his  lance  upon  a  boar  or  lion? 
and  the  constancy  and  resolution  of  the  action  is  the  grace 
and  dignity  of  the  spectacle.  No  man  can  be  happy  that 
does  not  stand  firm  against  all  contingencies;  and  say  to 
himself  in  all  extremities,  "I  should  have  been  content,  if  it 
might  have  been  so  or  so;  but  since  it  is  otherwise  determined, 
God  will  provide  better."  The  more  we  struggle  with  our 
necessities,  we  draw  the  knot  the  harder,  and  the  worse  it  is 
with  us:  and  the  more  the  bird  flaps  and  flutters  in  the  snare, 
the  surer  she  is  caught:  so  that  the  best  way  is  to  submit  and 
lie  still,  under  this  double  consideration,  that  "the  proceed- 
ings of  God  are  unquestionable,  and  his  decrees  are  not  to  be 
resisted." 


CHAP.   IX 

Of  levity  of  mind,  and  other  impediments  of  a  happy 

life 

Now,  to  sum  up  what  is  already  delivered,  we  have  show- 
ed what  happiness  is,  and  wherein  it  consists;  that  it  is 
founded  upon  wisdom  and  virtue;  for  we  must  first  know 
what  we  ought  to  do,  and  then  live  according  to  that  know- 
ledge. We  have  also  discoursed  the  helps  of  philosophy  and 
precept  towards  a  happy  life:  the  blessing  of  a  good  con- 
science; that  a  good  man  can  never  be  miserable,  nor  a 
wicked  man  happy;  nor  any  man  unfortunate  that  cheerfully 
submits  to  Providence.  We  shall  now  examine,  how  it  comes 
to  pass  that,  when  the  certain  way  to  happiness  lies  so  fair 
before  us,  men  will  yet  steer  their  course  on  the  other  side, 
which  as  manifestly  leads  to  ruin. 

There  are  some  that  live  without  any  design  at  all,  and 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  133 

only  pass  in  the  world  like  straws  upon  a  river; 
they  do  not  go,  but  they  are  carried.  Others  ^^{'^^^^^'^ 
only  deliberate  upon  the  parts  of  life,  and  not 
upon  the  whole,  which  is  a  great  error:  for  there  is  no  dis- 
posing of  the  circumstances  of  it,  unless  we  first  propound 
the  main  scope.  How  shall  any  man  take  his  aim  without  a 
mark.?  or  what  wind  will  serve  him  that  is  not  yet  resolved 
upon  his  port?  We  live  as  it  were  by  chance,  and  by  chance 
we  are  governed.  Some  there  are  that  torment  themselves 
afresh  with  the  memory  of  what  is  past:  "Lord!  what  did  I 
endure.''  never  was  any  man  in  my  condition;  every  body 
gave  me  over;  my  very  heart  was  ready  to  break,"  &c. 
Others,  again,  afflict  themselves  with  the  apprehension  of 
evils  to  come;  and  very  ridiculously  both:  for  the  one  does 
not  now  concern  us,  and  the  other  not  yet:  beside  that,  there 
may  be  remedies  for  mischiefs  likely  to  happen;  for  they 
give  us  warning  by  signs  and  symptoms  of  their  approach. 
Let  him  that  would  be  quiet  take  heed  not  to  provoke  men 
that  are  in  power,  but  live  without  giving  offence;  and  if  we 
cannot  make  all  great  men  our  friends,  it  will  suffice  to  keep 
them  from  being  our  enemies.  This  is  a  thing  we  must 
avoid,  as  a  mariner  would  do  a  storm.  A  rash  seaman  never 
considers  what  wind  blows,  or  what  course  he  steers,  but 
runs  at  a  venture,  as  if  he  would  brave  the  rocks  and  the 
eddies;  whereas  he  that  is  careful  and  considerate,  informs 
himself  beforehand  where  the  danger  lies,  and  what  weather 
it  is  like  to  be:  he  consults  his  compass,  and  keeps  aloof  from 
those  places  that  are  infamous  for  wrecks  and  miscarriages; 
so  does  a  wise  man  in  the  common  business  of  life;  he  keeps 
out  of  the  way  from  those  that  may  do  him  hurt;  but  it  is  a 
point  of  prudence  not  to  let  them  take  notice  that  he  does  it 
on  purpose;  for  that  which  a  man  shuns  he  tacitly  condemns. 
Let  him  have  a  care  also  of  listeners,  newsmongers,  and  med- 
dlers in  other  people's  matters;  for  their  discourse  is  com- 
monly of  such  things  as  are  never  profitable,  and  most  com- 
monly dangerous  either  to  be  spoken  or  heard. 

Levity  of  mind  is  a  great  hinderance  of  repose,  and  the  very 
change   of  wickedness    is    an    addition    to   the 
wickedness  itself;    for  it  is  inconstancy  added    ^^°'^^iy  of  mmd 
to     inquity:      we     relinquish     the     thing     we    '^f '^  S^^^^"^^' 

.  .  Cl6T(l7lC€  of  OtCT 

sought,    and   then   we   take   it   up   agam;     and    j-epose 
so  divide  our  lives  between  our  lust  and  our 


134  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

repentances.  From  one  appetite  we  pass  to  another,  not 
so  much  upon  choice  as  for  change;  and  there  is  a  check  of 
conscience  that  casts  a  damp  upon  all  our  unlawful  pleasures, 
which  makes  us  lose  the  day  in  expectation  of  the  night,  and 
the  night  itself  for  fear  of  the  approaching  light. 

Some  people  are  never  at  quiet,  others  are  always  so,  and 
they  are  both  to  blame:  for  that  which  looks  like  vivacity  and 
industry  in  the  one  is  only  a  restlessness  and  agitation;  and 
that  which  passes  in  the  other  for  moderation  and  reserve  is 
but  a  drowsy  and  unactive  sloth.  Let  motion  and  rest  both 
take  their  turns,  according  to  the  order  of  Nature,  which  make 
both  the  day  and  the  night.  Some  are  perpetually  shifting 
from  one  thing  to  another;  others,  again,  make  their  whole 
life  but  a  kind  of  uneasy  sleep:  some  lie  tossing  and  turning 
until  very  weariness  brings  them  to  rest;  others,  again,  I  can- 
not so  properly  call  inconstant  as  lazy.  There  are  many  pro- 
prieties and  diversities  of  vice;  but  it  is  one  never-failing 
effect  of  it  to  live  displeased.  We  do  all  of  us  labour  under 
inordinate  desires;  we  are  either  timorous,  and  dare  not  ven- 
ture, or  venturing  we  do  not  succeed;  or  else  we  cast  our- 
selves upon  uncertain  hopes,  where  we  are  perpetually  soli- 
citous, and  in  suspense.  In  this  distraction  we  are  apt  to 
propose  to  ourselves  things  dishonest  and  hard;  and  when  we 
have  taken  great  pains  to  no  purpose,  we  come  then  to  repent 
of  our  undertakings:  we  are  afraid  to  go  on,  and  we  can  nei- 
ther master  our  appetites  nor  obey  them:  we  live  and  die 
restless  and  irresolute;  and,  which  is  worst  of  all,  when  we 
grow  weary  of  the  public,  and  betake  ourselves  to  solitude  for 
relief,  our  minds  are  sick  and  wallowing,  and  the  very  house 
and  walls  are  troublesome  to  us;  we  grow  impatient  and 
ashamed  of  ourselves,  and  suppress  our  inward  vexation  until 
it  breaks  our  heart  for  want  of  vent.  This  is  it  that  makes  us 
sour  and  morose,  envious  of  others,  and  dissatisfied  with  our- 
selves; until  at  last,  betwixt  our  troubles  for  other  people's 
successes  and  the  despair  of  our  own,  we  fall  foul  upon  For- 
tune and  the  times,  and  get  into  a  corner  perhaps,  where  we 
sit  brooding  over  our  own  disquiets.  In  these  dispositions 
there  is  a  kind  of  puriginous  fancy,  that  makes  some  people 
take  delight  in  labour  and  uneasiness,  like  the  clawing  of  an 
itch  until  the  blood  starts. 

This  is  it  that  puts  us  upon  rambling  voyages;    one  while 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  135 

by    land;     but    still    disgusted    with    the    pre- 
sent:   the  town   pleases   us  to-day,   the  coun-    Change  of  place 
try      to-morrow:       the      splendours      of     the     °",  ^°  ^°,° 

ZVXthOXit  C uCL'yi2€ 

court  at  one  time,  the  horrors  of  a  wilder-  of  mind 
ness  at  another;  but  all  this  while  we 
carry  our  plague  about  us;  for  it  is  not  the  place  we  are 
weary  of,  but  ourselves.  Nay,  our  weakness  extends  to 
every  thing;  for  we  are  impatient  equally  of  toil  and  of  plea- 
sure. This  trotting  of  the  ring,  and  only  treading  the  same 
steps  over  and  over  again,  has  made  many  a  man  lay  violent 
hands  upon  himself.  It  must  be  the  change  of  the  mind,  not 
of  the  climate,  that  will  remove  the  heaviness  of  the  heart; 
our  vices  go  along  with  us,  and  we  carry  in  ourselves  the 
causes  of  our  disquiets.  There  is  a  great  weight  lies  upon 
us,  and  the  bare  shocking  of  it  makes  it  the  more  uneasy; 
changing  of  countries,  in  this  case,  is  not  travelling,  but  wan- 
dering. We  must  keep  on  our  course,  if  we  would  gain  our 
journey's  end.  "He  that  cannot  live  happily  any  where, 
will  live  happily  no  where."  What  is  a  man  the  better  for 
travelling.?  as  if  his  cares  could  not  find  him  out  wherever 
he  goes.?  Is  there  any  retiring  from  the  fear  of  death,  or  of 
torments.?  or  from  those  difficulties  which  beset  a  man 
wherever  he  is?  It  is  only  philosophy  that  makes  the  mind 
invincible,  and  places  us  out  of  the  reach  of  fortune,  so  that 
all  her  arrows  fall  short  of  us.  This  it  is  that  reclaims  the 
rage  of  our  lusts,  and  sweetens  the  anxiety  of  our  fears. 
Frequent  changing  of  places  or  councils,  shows  an  insta- 
bility of  mind;  and  we  must  fix  the  body  before  we  can  fix 
the  soul.  We  can  hardly  stir  abroad,  or  look  about  us,  with- 
out encountering  something  or  other  that  revives  our  appe- 
tites. As  he  that  would  cast  off^  an  unhappy  love  avoids 
whatsoever  may  put  him  in  mind  of  the  person,  so  he  that 
would  wholly  deliver  himself  from  his  beloved  lusts  must 
shun  all  objects  that  may  put  them  in  his  head  again,  and  re- 
mind him  of  them.  We  travel,  as  children  run  up  and  down 
after  strange  sights,  for  novelty,  not  profit;  we  return  neither 
the  better  nor  the  sounder;  nay,  and  the  very  agitation 
hurts  us.  We  learn  to  call  towns  and  places  by  their  names, 
and  to  tell  stories  of  mountains  and  of  rivers;  but  had  not 
our  time  been  better  spent  in  the  study  of  wisdom  and  of 
virtue?  in  the  learning  of  what  is  already  discovered,  and  in 
the  quest  of  things  not  yet  found  out?     If  a  man  break  his 


136  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

leg,  or  strain  his  ancle,  he  sends  presently  for  a  surgeon  to 
set  all  right  again,  and  does  not  take  horse  upon  it,  or  put 
himself  on  ship-board;  no  more  does  the  change  of  place 
work  upon  our  disordered  minds  than  upon  our  bodies.  It  is 
not  the  place,  I  hope,  that  makes  either  an  orator  or  a  physi- 
cian. Will  any  man  ask  upon  the  road.  Pray,  which  is  the 
way  to  prudence,  to  justice,  to  temperance,  to  fortitude?  No 
matter  whither  any  man  goes  that  carries  his  affections  along 
with  him.  He  that  would  make  his  travels  delightful  must 
make  himself  a  temperate  companion.  A  great  traveller  was 
complaining  that  he  was  never  the  better  for  his  travels; 
"That  is  very  true,"  said  Socrates,  "because  you  travelled 
with  yourself."  Now,  had  not  he  better  have  made  himself 
another  man  than  to  transport  himself  to  another  place?  It 
is  no  matter  what  manners  we  find  any  where,  so  long  as  we 
carry  our  own.  But  we  have  all  of  us  a  natural  curiosity  of 
seeing  fine  sights,  and  of  making  new  discoveries,  turning 
over  antiquities,  learning  the  customs  of  nations,  &c.  We 
are  never  quiet;  to-day  we  seek  an  office,  to-morrow  we  are 
sick  of  it.  We  divide  our  lives  betwixt  a  dislike  of  the  pre- 
sent and  a  desire  of  the  future:  but  he  that  lives  as  he  should, 
orders  himself  so,  as  neither  to  fear  nor  to  wish  for  to-mor- 
row: if  it  comes,  it  is  welcome;  but  if  not,  there  is  nothing 
lost;  for  that  which  is  come,  is  but  the  same  over  again  with 
what  is  past.  As  levity  is  a  pernicious  enemy  to  quiet,  so 
pertinacy  is  a  great  one  too.  The  one  changes  nothing,  the 
other  sticks  to  nothing;  and  which  of  the  two  is  the  worse, 
may  be  a  question.  It  is  many  times  seen,  that  we  beg  ear- 
nestly for  those  things,  which,  if  they  were  offered  us,  we 
would  refuse;  and  it  is  but  just  to  punish  this  easiness  of  ask- 
ing with  an  equal  facility  of  granting.  There  are  some 
things  we  would  be  thought  to  desire,  which  we  are  so  far 
from  desiring  that  we  dread  them.  "I  shall  tire  you,"  says 
one,  in  the  middle  of  a  tedious  story.  "Nay,  pray  be  pleased 
to  go  on,"  we  cry,  though  we  wish  his  tongue  out  at  half- 
way: nay,  we  do  not  deal  candidly  even  with  God  himself. 
We  should  say  to  ourselves  in  these  cases,  "This  I  have 
drawn  upon  myself.  I  could  never  be  quiet  until  I  had  gotten 
this  woman,  this  place,  this  estate,  this  honour,  and  now  see 
what  is  come  of  it." 

One  sovereign  remedy  against  all  misfortunes  is  constancy 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  137 

of  mind:    the  changing  of  parties  and  counte- 
nances looks  as  if  a  man  were  driven  with  the    Constancy  of 

wind.     Nothing  can  be  above  him  that  is  above    ^^^^  "'il^Zi 
f.  T     •  •   I  1  US  m  ail  aif' 

tortune.     It  is  not  violence,  reproach,  contempt,    ficuities 

or  whatever  else  from  without,  that  can  make  a 
wise  man  quit  his  ground:  but  he  is  proof  against  calamities, 
both  great  and  small:  only  our  error  is,  that  what  we  cannot  do 
ourselves,  we  think  no  body  else  can;  so  that  we  judge  of 
the  wise  by  the  measures  of  the  weak.  Place  me  among 
princes  or  among  beggars,  the  one  shall  not  make  me  proud, 
nor  the  other  ashamed.  I  can  take  as  sound  a  sleep  in  a  barn 
as  in  a  palace,  and  a  bundle  of  hay  makes  me  as  good  a 
lodging  as  a  bed  of  down.  Should  every  day  succeed  to  my 
wish,  it  should  not  transport  me;  nor  would  I  think  myself 
miserable  if  I  should  not  have  one  quiet  hour  in  my  life.  I 
will  not  transport  myself  with  either  pain  or  pleasure;  but 
yet  for  all  that,  I  could  wish  that  I  had  an  easier  game  to  play, 
and  that  I  were  put  rather  to  moderate  my  joys  than  my  sor- 
rows. If  I  were  an  imperial  prince,  I  had  rather  take  than  be 
taken;  and  yet  I  would  bear  the  same  mind  under  the  cha- 
riot of  my  conqueror  that  I  had  in  my  own.  It  is  no  great 
matter  to  trample  upon  those  things  that  are  most  coveted  or 
feared  by  the  common  people.  There  are  those  that  will 
laugh  upon  the  wheel,  and  cast  themselves  upon  a  certain 
death,  only  upon  a  transport  of  love,  perhaps  anger,  avarice, 
or  revenge;  how  much  more  then  upon  an  instinct  of  virtue, 
which  is  invincible  and  steady?  If  a  short  obstinacy  of  mind 
can  do  this,  how  much  more  shall  a  composed  and  deliber- 
ate virtue,  whose  force  is  equal  and  perpetual .? 

To  secure  ourselves  in  this  world,  first,  we  must  aim  at  no- 
thing   that    men    count    worth    the    wrangling 
for.     Secondly,   We  must   not  value  the   pos-    ^^'^  ^^^^  ^^  . 

session    of  any   thing   which    even    a    common    ^f'^^^ofof^^^ 

1  '   r  1  1     1  •    1  11  1  •  A  .the  world  the 

thiei  would  think  worth  the  stealing.     A  man  s    ^^^^^^ 

body  is  no  booty.  Let  the  way  be  never  so 
dangerous  for  robberies,  the  poor  and  the  naked  pass  quietly. 
A  plain  dealing  sincerity  of  manners  makes  a  man's  life  happy, 
even  in  despite  of  scorn  and  contempt,  which  is  every  clear 
man's  fate.  But  we  had  better  yet  be  contemned  for  sim- 
plicity than  lie  perpetually  upon  the  torture  of  a  counterfeit; 
provided  that  care  be  taken  not  to  confound  simplicity  with 
negligence:  and  it  is,  moreover,  an  uneasy  life  that  of  a  dis- 
guise;  for  a  man  to  seem  to  be  what  he  is  not,  to  keep  a  per- 


138  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

petual  guard  upon  himself,  and  to  live  in  fear  of  a  discovery. 
He  takes  every  man  that  looks  upon  him  for  a  spy,  over  and 
above  the  trouble  of  being  put  to  play  another  man's  part. 
It  is  a  good  remedy  in  some  cases  for  a  man  to  apply  himself 
to  civil  affairs  and  public  business;  and  yet,  in  this  state  of 
life  too,  what  betwixt  ambition  and  calumny,  it  is  hardly  safe 
to  be  honest.  There  are,  indeed,  some  cases  wherein  a  wise 
man  will  give  way;  but  let  him  not  yield  over  easily  nei- 
ther: if  he  marches  off,  let  him  have  a  care  of  his  honour, 
and  make  his  retreat  with  his  sword  in  his  hand,  and  his  face 
to  the  enemy.  Of  all  others,  a  studious  life  is  the  least  tire- 
some; it  makes  us  easy  to  ourselves  and  to  others,  and  gains 
us  both  friends  and  reputation. 


CHAP.  X 

He  that  sets  up  his  rest  upon  contingences  shall  never 

be  quiet 

Never  pronounce  any  man  happy  that  depends  upon  for- 
tune for  his  happiness;  for  nothing  can  be  more  prepos- 
terous than  to  place  the  good  of  a  reasonable  creature  in  un- 
reasonable things.  If  I  have  lost  any  thing,  it  was  adventi- 
tious; and  the  less  money,  the  less  trouble;  the  less  favour, 
the  less  envy;  nay,  even  in  those  cases  that  put  us  out  of 
their  wits,  it  is  not  the  loss  itself,  but  the  opinion  of  the  loss, 
that  troubles  us.  It  is  a  common  mistake  to  account  those 
things  necessary  that  are  superfluous,  and  to  depend  upon 
fortune  for  the  felicity  of  life,  which  arises  only  from  virtue. 
There  is  no  trusting  to  her  smiles;  the  sea  swells  and  rages 
in  a  moment,  and  the  ships  are  swallowed  at  night,  in  the 
very  place  where  they  sported  themselves  in  the  morning. 
And  fortune  has  the  same  power  over  princes  that  it  has  over 
empires,  over  nations  that  it  has  over  cities,  and  the  same 
power  over  cities  that  it  has  over  private  men.  Where  is  that 
estate  that  may  not  be  followed  upon  the  heel  with  famine 
and  beggary.'*  that  dignity  which  the  next  moment  may  not 
be  laid  in  the  dust,?  that  kindgom  that  is  secure  from  desola- 
tion and  ruin.?  The  period  of  all  things  is  at  hand,  as  well 
that  which  casts  out  the  fortunate  as  the  other  that  delivers 
the  unhappy;  and  that  which  may  fall  out  at  any  time  may 
fall  out  this  very  day.     What  shall  come  to  pass  I  know  not, 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  139 

but  what  may  come  to  pass  I  know:  so  that  I  will  despair  of 
nothing,  but  expect  every  thing;  and  whatsoever  Providence 
remits  is  clear  gain.  Every  moment,  if  it  spares  me,  de- 
ceives me;  and  yet  in  some  sort  it  does  not  deceive  me; 
for  though  I  know  that  any  thing  may  happen,  yet  I  know 
likewise  that  every  thing  will  not.  I  will  hope  the  best,  and 
provide  for  the  worst.  Methinks  we  should  not  find  so  much 
fault  with  fortune  for  her  inconstancy,  when  we  ourselves 
suffer  a  change  every  moment  that  we  live;  only  other 
changes  make  more  noise,  and  this  steals  upon  us  like  the 
shadow  upon  a  dial,  every  jot  as  certainly,  but  more  insen- 
sibly. 

The  burning  of  Lyons  may  serve  to  show  us  that  we  are 
never  safe,  and    to  arm  us    against    all    sur- 
prises.      The    terror    of    it    must    needs     be    ^n  instance  of 
great,    for    the    calamity    is    almost    without    the  uncertainty ^ 

iTr-iJL  /^JL  0/  human  ajfairs 

example.     If  it  had   been  fired   by  an  enemy,     -^  ^^^  ^^^J^^ 

the  flame  would  have  left  some  further  oj  Lyons 
mischief  to  have  been  done  by  the  soldiers; 
but  to  be  wholly  consumed,  we  have  not  heard  of  many 
earthquakes  so  pernicious:  so  many  rarities  to  be  destroyed 
in  one  night;  and  in  the  depth  of  peace  to  suffer  an  outrage 
beyond  the  extremity  of  war;  who  would  believe  it!  but 
twelve  hours  betwixt  so  fair  a  city  and  none  at  all!  It  was 
laid  in  ashes  in  less  time  than  it  would  require  to  tell  the 
story.  To  stand  unshaken  in  such  a  calamity  is  hardly  to  be 
expected,  and  our  wonder  cannot  but  be  equal  to  our  grief. 
Let  this  accident  teach  us  to  provide  against  all  possibilities 
that  fall  within  the  power  of  fortune.  All  external  things 
are  under  her  dominion:  one  while  she  calls  our  hands  to 
her  assistance;  another  while  she  contents  herself  with  her 
own  force,  and  destroys  us  with  mischiefs  of  which  we  can- 
not find  the  author.  No  time,  place,  or  condition,  is  except- 
ed; she  makes  our  very  pleasures  painful  to  us;  she  makes 
war  upon  us  in  the  depth  of  peace,  and  turns  the  means  of 
our  security  into  an  occasion  of  fear;  she  turns  a  friend  into 
an  enemy,  and  makes  a  foe  of  a  companion;  we  suffer  the 
effects  of  war  without  any  adversary;  and  rather  than  fail, 
our  felicity  shall  be  the  cause  of  our  destruction.  Lest  we 
should  either  forget  or  neglect  her  power,  every  day  pro- 
duces something  extraordinary.  She  persecutes  the  most 
temperate  with  sickness,  the  strongest  constitutions  with  the 
phthisic;     she    brings   the   innocent   to   punishment,    and    the 


140  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

most  retired  she  assaults  with  tumults.     Those  glories  that 
have  grown  up  with  many  ages,  with  infinite  labour  and  ex- 
pense,   and    under    the    favour    of    many   auspicious    provi- 
dences, one  day  scatters  and  brings  to  nothing.     He  that  pro- 
nounced a  day,  nay,  an  hour,  sufficient  for  the  destruction  of 
the  greatest  empire,  might  have  fallen  to  a  moment.     It  were 
some  comfort  yet  to  the  frailty  of  mankind  and  of  human 
affairs,  if  things  might  but  decay  as  slowly  as  they  rise;    but 
they  grow  by  degrees,  and  they  fall  to  ruin  in  an  instant. 
There  is  no  felicity  in   any  thing  either  private  or  public; 
men,   nations,   and   cities,   have   all  their  fates   and   periods; 
our   very   entertainments    are   not   without   terror,    and   our 
calamity  rises  there  where  we  least  expect  it.     Those  king- 
doms that  stood  the  shock  both  of  foreign  wars  and  civil, 
come  to  destruction  without  the   sight  of  an  enemy.     Nay, 
we  are  to  dread  our  peace  and  felicity  more  than  violence, 
because  we  are  here  taken  unprovided;    unless  in  a  state  of 
peace  we  do  the  duty  of  men  in  war,  and  say  to  ourselves. 
Whatsoever  may  he,  will  be.     I  am  to-day  safe  and  happy  in 
the  love  of  my  country;    I  am  to-morrow  banished:    to-day 
in  pleasure,  peace,  health;    to-morrow  broken  upon  a  wheel, 
led  in  triumph,  and  in  the  agony  of  sickness.     Let  us  there- 
fore prepare  for  a  shipwreck  in  the  port,  and  for  a  tempest  in 
a  calm.     One  violence  drives  me  from  my  country,  another 
ravishes  that  from  me;   and  that  very  place  where  a  man  can 
hardly  pass  this  day  for  a  crowd  may  be  to-morrow  a  desert. 
—  Wherefore  let  us  set  before  our  eyes  the  whole  condition 
of  human  nature,  and  consider  as  well  what  may  happen  as 
what  commonly  does.     The  way  to  make  future  calamities 
easy  to  us  in  the  sufferance,  is  to  make  them  familiar  to  us  in 
the  contemplation.     How   many   cities   in   Asia,  Achaia,  As- 
syria, Macedonia,  have  been  swallowed  up  by  earthquakes! 
nay,  whole  countries  are  lost,  and  large  provinces  laid  under 
water;   but  time  brings  all  things  to  an  end;   for  all  the  works 
of  mortals  are  mortal:    all  possessions,  and  their  possessors, 
are  uncertain  and  perishable;    and  what  wonder  is  it  to  lose 
any  thing  at  any  time,  when  we  must  one  day  lose  all? 

That  which  we  call  our  own  is  but  lent  us;    and  what  we 

have   received   gratis  we  must  return  without 

That  which  we       complaint.     That  which  fortune  gives  us  this 

^butlentTs^  ^^       hour  she  may  take   away  the  next;    and   he 

that    trust    to    her   favours,    shall   either   find 

himself   deceived,    or    if    he    be    not,    he    will    at    least    be 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  141 

troubled,  because  he  may  be  so.  There  is  no  defence  in 
walls,  fortifications,  and  engines,  against  the  power  of  for- 
tune; we  must  provide  ourselves  within,  and  when  we  are 
safe  there,  we  are  invincible;  we  may  be  battered,  but  not 
taken.  She  throws  her  gifts  among  us,  and  we  sweat  and 
scuffle  for  them:  never  considering  how  few  are  the  better 
for  that  which  is  expected  by  all.  Some  are  transported  with 
what  they  get;  others  tormented  for  what  they  miss;  and 
many  times  there  is  a  leg  or  an  arm  broken  in  a  contest  for  a 
counter.  She  gives  us  honours,  riches,  favours,  only  to  take 
them  away  again,  either  by  violence  or  treachery:  so  that 
they  frequently  turn  to  the  damage  of  the  receiver.  She 
throws  out  baits  for  us,  and  sets  traps  as  we  do  for  birds  and 
beasts;  her  bounties  are  snares  and  lime-twigs  to  us;  we 
think  that  we  take,  but  we  are  taken.  If  they  had  any  thing 
in  them  that  were  substantial,  they  would  some  time  or  other 
fill  and  quiet  us;  but  they  serve  only  to  provoke  our  appe- 
tite without  any  thing  more  than  pomp  and  show  to  allay  it. 
But  the  best  of  it  is,  if  a  man  cannot  mend  his  fortune,  he 
may  yet  mend  his  manners,  and  put  himself  so  far  out  of  her 
reach,  that  whether  she  gives  or  takes,  it  shall  be  all  one  to 
us;  for  we  are  neither  the  greater  for  the  one,  nor  the  less 
for  the  other.  We  call  this  a  dark  room,  or  that  a  light  one; 
when  it  is  in  itself  neither  the  one  nor  the  other,  but  only  as 
the  day  and  the  night  renders  it.  And  so  it  is  in  riches, 
strength  of  body,  beauty,  honour,  command:  and  likewise 
in  pain,  sickness,  banishment,  death:  which  are  in  them- 
selves middle  and  indifferent  things,  and  only  good  or  bad 
as  they  are  influenced  by  virtue.  To  weep,  lament,  and 
groan,  is  to  renounce  our  duty;  and  it  is  the  same  weakness 
on  the  other  side  to  exult  and  rejoice.  I  would  rather  make 
my  fortune  than  expect  it;  being  neither  depressed  with  her 
injuries,  nor  dazzled  with  her  favours.  When  Zeno  was 
told,  that  all  his  goods  were  drowned;  "Why  then,"  says  he, 
"fortune  has  a  mind  to  make  me  a  philosopher."  It  is  a 
great  matter  for  a  man  to  advance  his  mind  above  her 
threats  or  flatteries;  for  he  that  has  once  gotten  the  better 
of  her  is  safe  for  ever. 

It  is  some  comfort  yet  to  the  unfortunate,  that  great  men 
lie    under    the    lash    for    company;     and    that 
death    spares    the    palace    no    more    than    the    Fortune  spares 

^      ^  y  •         1  1  neither  great 

cottage;    and  that  whoever  is   above  me  has    ^or  small 
a   power   also   above   him.     Do   we   not   daily 


142  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

see  funerals  without  trouble,  princes  deposed,  countries  de- 
populated, towns  sacked;  without  so  much  as  thinking  how 
soon  it  may  be  our  own  case?  whereas,  if  we  would  but  pre- 
pare and  arm  ourselves  against  the  iniquities  of  fortune,  we 
should  never  be  surprised.  When  we  see  any  man  banished, 
beggared,  tortured,  we  are  to  account,  that  though  the  mis- 
chief fell  upon  another,  it  was  levelled  at  us.  What  wonder 
is  it  if,  of  so  many  thousands  of  dangers  that  are  constantly 
hovering  about  us,  one  comes  to  hit  us  at  last?  That  which 
befals  any  man,  may  befal  every  man;  and  then  it  breaks  the 
force  of  a  present  calamity  to  provide  against  the  future. 
Whatsoever  our  lot  is,  we  must  bear  it:  as  suppose  it  be  con- 
tumely, cruelty,  fire,  sword,  pains,  diseases,  or  a  prey  to  wild 
beasts;  there  is  no  struggling,  nor  any  remedy  but  modera- 
tion. It  is  to  no  purpose  to  bewail  any  part  of  our  life, 
when  life  itself  is  miserable  throughout;  and  the  whole  flux 
of  it  only  a  course  of  transition  from  one  misfortune  to 
another.  A  man  may  as  well  wonder  that  he  should  be  cold 
in  winter,  sick  at  sea,  or  have  his  bones  clattered  together 
in  a  waggon,  as  at  the  encounter  of  ill  accidents  and  crosses 
in  the  passage  of  human  life;  and  it  is  in  vain  to  run  away 
from  fortune,  as  if  there  were  any  hiding-place  wherein  she 
could  not  find  us;  or  to  expect  any  quiet  from  her;  for  she 
makes  life  a  perpetual  state  of  war,  without  so  much  as  any 
respite  or  truce.  This  we  may  conclude  upon,  that  her  em- 
pire is  but  imaginary,  and  that  whosoever  serves  her,  makes 
himself  a  voluntary  slave;  for  "the  things  that  are  often 
contemned  by  the  inconsiderate,  and  always  by  the  wise,  are 
in  themselves  neither  good  nor  evil:"  as  pleasure  and  pains; 
prosperity  and  adversity;  which  can  only  operate  upon  our 
outward  condition,  without  any  proper  and  necessary  effect 
upon  the  mind. 


CHAP.  XI 

A  sensual  life  is  a  miserable  life 

The  sensuality  that  we  here  treat  of  falls  naturally  under 
the  head  of  luxury;  which  extends  to  all  the  excesses  of 
gluttony,  lust,  effeminacy  of  manners;  and,  in  short,  to 
whatsoever  concerns  the  over-great  care  of  the  carcass. 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  143 

To  begin  now  with  the  pleasures  of  the  palate,  (which  deal 

with    us   like    Egyptian   thieves,    that   strangle 

those    they    embrace,)    what    shall    we    say    of    '^^^  excesses  of 

the  luxury  of  Nomentanus   and  Apicius,   that    ^^^^t  f^^  , 
\      ^     ■  1       .         I        1  •     1  pamjuL  ana 

entertained    their   very    souls   m    the   kitchen:    dangerous 

they  have  the  choicest  music  for  their  ears; 
the  most  diverting  spectacles  for  their  eyes;  the  choicest 
variety  of  meats  and  drink  for  their  palates.  What  is  all  this, 
I  say,  but  a  merry  madness?  It  is  true,  they  have  their  delights, 
but  not  without  heavy  and  anxious  thoughts,  even  in  their  very 
enjoyments;  beside  that,  they  are  followed  with  repentance, 
and  their  frolics  are  little  more  than  the  laughter  of  so  many 
people  out  of  their  wits.  Their  felicities  are  full  of  disquiet, 
and  neither  sincere  nor  well  grounded:  but  they  have  need 
of  one  pleasure  to  support  another;  and  of  new  prayers  to 
forgive  the  errors  of  their  former.  Their  life  must  needs  be 
wretched  that  get  with  great  pains  what  they  keep  with  great- 
er. One  diversion  overtakes  another:  hope  excites  hope; 
ambition  begets  ambition;  so  that  they  only  change  the  mat- 
ter of  their  miseries,  without  seeking  any  end  of  them;  and 
shall  never  be  without  either  prosperous  or  unhappy  causes 
of  disquiet.  What  if  a  body  might  have  all  the  pleasures  in 
the  world  for  the  asking  .f'  who  would  so  much  unman  him- 
self, as  by  accepting  of  them,  to  desert  his  soul,  and  become  a 
perpetual  slave  to  his  senses?  Those  false  and  miserable 
palates,  that  judge  of  meats  by  the  price  and  difficulty,  not  by 
the  healthfulness  or  taste,  they  vomit  that  they  may  eat,  and 
they  eat  that  they  may  fetch  it  up  again.  They  cross  the 
seas  for  rarities,  and  when  they  have  swallowed  them,  they 
will  not  so  much  as  give  them  time  to  digest.  Wheresoever 
Nature  has  placed  men,  she  has  provided  them  aliment:  but 
we  rather  choose  to  irritate  hunger  by  expense  than  to  allay  it 
at  an  easier  rate.  What  is  it  that  we  plough  the  seas  for;  or 
arm  ourselves  against  men  and  beasts?  To  what  end  do  we 
toil,  and  labour,  and  pile  bags  upon  bags?  We  may  enlarge 
our  fortunes,  but  we  cannot  our  bodies;  so  that  it  does  but 
spill,  and  run  over,  whatsoever  we  take  more  than  we  can 
hold.  Our  forefathers  (by  the  force  of  whose  virtues  we  are 
now  supported  in  our  vices)  lived  every  jot  as  well  as  we, 
when  they  provided  and  dressed  their  own  meat  with  their 
own  hands;  lodged  upon  the  ground,  and  were  not  as  yet 
come  to  the  vanity  of  gold  and  gems;    when  they  swore  by 


144  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

their  earthen  gods,  and  kept  their  oath,  though  they  died  for 
it.  Did  not  our  consuls  live  more  happily  when  they  cooked 
their  own  meat  with  those  victorious  hands  that  had  conquer- 
ed so  many  enemies  and  won  so  many  laurels?  Did  they  not 
live  more  happily,  I  say,  than  our  Apicius  (that  corrupter  of 
youth,  and  plague  of  the  age  he  lived  in)  who,  after  he  had 
spent  a  prodigious  fortune  upon  his  belly,  poisoned  himself  for 
fear  of  starving,  when  he  had  yet  250,000  crowns  in  his  cof- 
fers? which  may  serve  to  show  us,  that  it  is  the  mind,  and 
not  the  sum,  that  makes  any  man  rich;  when  Apicius  with 
all  his  treasure  counted  himself  in  a  state  of  beggary,  and  took 
poison  to  avoid  that  condition,  which  another  would  have 
prayed  for.  But  why  do  we  call  it  poison,  which  was  the 
wholesomest  draught  of  his  life?  His  daily  gluttony  was  poi- 
son rather,  both  to  himself  and  others.  His  ostentation  of  it 
was  intolerable;  and  so  was  the  infinite  pains  he  took  to  mis- 
lead others  by  his  example,  who  went  even  fast  enough  of 
themselves  without  driving. 

It  is  a  shame  for  a  man  to  place  his  felicity  in  those  enter- 
tainments and  appetites  that  are  stronger  in 
If  sensuality  brutes.     Do    not    beasts    eat    with    a    better 

were  happiness,  stomach  ?  Have  they  not  more  satisfaction  in 
happier  than  their  lusts?  And  they  have  not  only  a  quicker 
men  relish  of  their  pleasures,  but  they  enjoy  them 

without  either  scandal  or  remorse.  If  sensu- 
ality were  happiness,  beasts  were  happier  than  men;  but  hu- 
man felicity  is  lodged  in  the  soul,  not  in  the  flesh.  They  that 
deliver  themselves  up  to  luxury  are  still  either  tormented  with 
too  little,  or  oppressed  with  too  much;  and  equally  miserable, 
by  being  either  deserted  or  overwhelmed!  they  are  like  men 
in  a  dangerous  sea;  one  while  cast  a-dry  upon  a  rock,  and 
another  while  swallowed  up  in  a  whirlpool;  and  all  this 
from  the  mistake  of  not  distinguishing  good  from  evil.  The 
huntsman,  that  with  much  labour  and  hazard  takes  a  wild 
beast,  runs  as  great  a  risk  afterwards  in  the  keeping  of  him; 
for  many  times  he  tears  out  the  throat  of  his  master;  and  it  is 
the  same  thing  with  inordinate  pleasures:  the  more  in  num- 
ber, and  the  greater  they  are,  the  more  general  and  absolute 
a  slave  is  the  servant  of  them.  Let  the  common  people  pro- 
nounce him  as  happy  as  they  please,  he  pays  his  liberty  for 
his  delights,  and  sells  himself  for  what  he  buys. 

Let  any  man  take  a  view  of  our  kitchens,  the  number  of 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  145 

our  cooks,  and  the  variety  of  our  meats;    will 

he  not  wonder  to  see  so  much  provision  made    ^^      ,^  ^^ 

r  L    11     a      1T7       1  T  many  diseases 

tor  one  belly  r  We  have  as  many  diseases  ^s  dishes 
as  we  have  cooks  or  meats;  and  the  service 
of  the  appetite  is  the  study  now  in  vogue.  To  say  no- 
thing of  our  trains  of  lacqueys,  and  our  troops  of  ca- 
terers and  sewers:  Good  God!  that  ever  one  belly  should 
employ  so  many  people,  how  nauseous  and  fulsome  are  the 
surfeits  that  follow  these  excesses?  Simple  meats  are  out 
of  fashion,  and  all  are  collected  into  one;  so  that  the  cook 
does  the  office  of  the  stomach;  nay,  and  of  the  teeth  too; 
for  the  meat  looks  as  if  it  were  chewed  beforehand:  here  is 
the  luxury  of  all  tastes  in  one  dish,  and  liker  a  vomit  than 
a  soup.  From  these  compounded  dishes  arise  compounded 
diseases,  which  require  compounded  medicines.  It  is  the 
same  thing  with  our  minds  that  it  is  with  our  tables; 
simple  vices  are  curable  by  simple  counsels,  but  a  general 
dissolution  of  manners  is  hardly  overcome;  we  are  over- 
run with  a  public  as  well  as  with  a  private  madness. 
The  physicians  of  old  understood  little  more  than  the  virtue 
of  some  herbs  to  stop  blood,  or  heal  a  wound;  and  their 
firm  and  healthful  bodies  needed  little  more  before  they  were 
corrupted  by  luxury  and  pleasure;  and  when  it  came  to  that 
once,  their  business  was  not  to  lay  hunger,  but  to  provoke  it 
by  a  thousand  inventions  and  sauces.  That  which  was  ali- 
ment to  a  craving  stomach  is  become  a  burden  to  a  full  one. 
From  hence  came  paleness,  trembling,  and  worse  effects 
from  crudities  than  famine;  a  weakness  in  the  joints,  the 
belly  stretched,  suffusion  of  choler,  the  torpor  of  the  nerves, 
and  a  palpitation  of  the  heart.  To  say  nothing  of  megrims, 
torments  of  the  eyes  and  ears,  head-ache,  gout,  scurvy,  se- 
veral sorts  of  fevers  and  putrid  ulcers,  with  other  diseases 
that  are  but  the  punishment  of  luxury.  So  long  as  our  bodies 
were  hardened  with  labour,  or  tired  with  exercise  or  hunting, 
our  food  was  plain  and  simple;  many  dishes  have  made  many 
diseases. 

It  is  an  ill  thing  for  a  man  not  to  know  the  measure  of  his 
stomach,   nor  to  consider  that  men   do  many 
things  in  their    drink  that  they  are    ashamed    Drunkenness  is 

c  i  J         I  I     •  1  •  ,         a  voluntary 

01     sober;      drunkenness     bemg     nothmg     else         t 

but  a  voluntary  madness.     It  emboldens  men 

to  do  all  sorts  of  mischiefs;    it  both  irritates  wickedness  and 

discovers   it;    it   does   not  make   men   vicious,    but   it   shows 


146  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

them  to  be  so.  It  was  in  a  drunken  fit  that  Alexander  killed 
Clytus.  It  makes  him  that  is  insolent  prouder,  him  that  is 
cruel  fiercer;  it  takes  away  all  shame.  He  that  is  peevish 
breaks  out  presently  into  ill  words  and  blows.  The  lecher, 
without  any  regard  to  decency  or  scandal,  turns  up  his  whore 
in  the  market-place.  A  man's  tongue  trips,  his  head  runs 
round,  he  staggers  in  his  pace.  To  say  nothing  of  the  cru- 
dities and  diseases  that  follow  upon  this  distemper,  consider 
the  public  mischiefs  it  has  done.  How  many  warlike  nations 
and  strong  cities,  that  have  stood  invincible  to  attacks  and 
sieges,  has  drunkenness  overcome?  Is  it  not  a  great  honour 
to  drink  the  company  dead?  a  magnificent  virtue  to  swallow 
more  wine  than  the  rest,  and  yet  at  last  to  be  outdone  by  a 
hogshead?  What  shall  we  say  of  those  men  that  invert  the 
offices  of  day  and  night?  as  if  our  eyes  were  only  given  us  to 
make  use  of  in  the  dark  ?  Is  it  day  ?  "  It  is  time  to  go  to-bed." 
Is  it  night?  "It  is  time  to  rise."  Is  it  toward  morning?  "Let 
us  go  to  supper."  When  other  people  lie  down  they  rise, 
and  lie  till  the  next  night  to  digest  the  debauch  of  the  day  be- 
fore. It  is  an  argument  of  clownery,  to  do  as  other  people 
do.  Luxury  steals  upon  us  by  degrees;  first,  it  shows  itself 
in  a  more  than  ordinary  care  of  our  bodies,  it  slips  next  into 
the  furniture  of  our  houses;  and  it  gets  then  into  the  fabric, 
curiosity,  and  expense  of  the  house  itself.  It  appears,  lastly, 
in  the  fantastical  excesses  of  our  tables.  We  change  and 
shuffle  our  meats,  confound  our  sauces,  serve  that  in  first 
that  uses  to  be  the  last,  and  value  our  dishes,  not  for  the  taste, 
but  for  the  rarity.  Nay,  we  are  so  delicate,  that  we  must  be 
told  when  we  are  to  eat  or  drink;  when  we  are  hungry  or 
weary;  and  we  cherish  some  vices  as  proofs  and  arguments 
of  our  happiness.  The  most  miserable  mortals  are  they  that 
deliver  themselves  up  to  their  palates,  or  to  their  lusts:  the 
pleasure  is  short  and  turns  presently  nauseous,  and  the  end  of 
it  is  either  shame  or  repentance.  It  is  a  brutal  entertainment, 
and  unworthy  of  a  man,  to  place  his  felicity  in  the  service  of 
his  senses.  As  to  the  wrathful,  the  contentious,  the  ambi- 
tious, though  the  distemper  be  great,  the  offence  has  yet  some- 
thing in  it  that  is  manly:  but  the  basest  of  prostitutes  are 
those  that  dedicate  themselves  wholly  to  lust;  what  with  their 
hopes  and  fears,  anxiety  of  thought,  and  perpetual  disquiets, 
they  are  never  well,  full  nor  fasting. 

What  a  deal  of  business  is  now  made  about  our  houses  and 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  147 

diet,    which    was    at    first    both    obvious    and 

vanity  of  luxury 


of     little     expense?     Luxury     led     the     way,        ^ Jo  y  an 


and  we  have  employed  our  wits  in  the  aid 
of  our  vices.  First,  we  desired  superfluities,  our  next  step 
was  to  wickedness,  and,  in  conclusion,  we  delivered  up  our 
minds  to  our  bodies,  and  so  became  slaves  to  our  appetites, 
which  before  were  our  servants,  and  are  now  become  our 
masters.  What  was  it  that  brought  us  to  the  extravagance  of 
embroideries,  perfumes,  tire-women,  &c.  We  passed  the 
bounds  of  Nature,  and  lashed  out  into  superfluities;  inso- 
much, that  it  is  now-a-days  only  for  beggars  and  clowns  to 
content  themselves  with  what  is  sufficient;  our  luxury  makes 
us  insolent  and  mad.  We  take  upon  us  like  princes,  and  fly 
out  for  every  trifle,  as  if  there  were  life  and  death  in  the  case. 
What  a  madness  is  it  for  a  man  to  lay  out  an  estate  upon  a  table 
or  a  cabinet,  a  patrimony  upon  a  pair  of  pendants,  and  to  in- 
flame the  price  of  curiosities  according  to  the  hazard  either 
of  breaking  or  losing  of  them?  To  wear  garments  that  will 
neither  defend  a  woman's  body,  nor  her  modesty;  so  thin 
that  one  would  make  a  conscience  of  swearing  she  were 
naked:  for  she  hardly  shows  more  in  the  privacies  of  her 
amour  than  in  public?  How  long  shall  we  covet  and  op- 
press, enlarge  our  possessions,  and  account  that  too  little  for 
one  man  which  was  formerly  enough  for  a  nation?.  And  our 
luxury  is  as  insatiable  as  our  avarice.  Where  is  that  lake, 
that  sea,  that  forest,  that  spot  of  land,  that  is  not  ransacked 
to  gratify  our  palate?  The  very  earth  is  burdened  with  our 
buildings;  not  a  river,  not  a  mountain,  escapes  us.  Oh,  that 
there  should  be  such  boundless  desires  in  our  little  bodies! 
Would  not  fewer  lodgings  serve  us?  We  lie  but  in  one,  and 
where  we  are  not,  that  is  not  properly  ours.  What  with  our 
hooks,  snares,  nets,  dogs,  &c.  we  are  at  war  with  all  living 
creatures;  and  nothing  comes  amiss  but  that  which  is  either 
too  cheap,  or  too  common;  and  all  this  is  to  gratify  a  fan- 
tastical palate.  Our  avarice,  our  ambition,  our  lusts,  are 
insatiable;  we  enlarge  our  possessions,  swell  our  families,  we 
,  rifle  sea  and  land  for  matter  of  ornament  and  luxury.  A  bull 
contents  himself  with  one  meadow,  and  one  forest  is  enough 
for  a  thousand  elephants;  but  the  little  body  of  a  man  de- 
vours more  than  all  other  living  creatures.  We  do  not  eat  to 
satisfy  hunger,  but  ambition;  we  are  dead  while  we  are  alive, 
and  our  houses  are  so  much  our  tombs,  that  a  man  might 
write  our  epitaphs  upon  our  very  doors. 


148  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

A  voluptuous  person,  in  fine,  can  neither  be  a  good  man, 

a  good  patriot,  nor  a  good  friend;    for  he  is 

A  voluptuous         transported    with    his    appetites,    without    con- 

ferson  cannot         sideling,   that  the   lot  of  man   is  the  law  of 

be  a  good  man  a  ^  /,-,  i         m-     \ 

JNature.     A    good    man    (hke    a    good    soldier; 

will  stand  his  ground,  receive  wounds,  glory  in  his  scars,  and 
in  death  itself  love  his  master  for  whom  he  falls;  with  that 
divine  precept  always  in  his  mind,  "Follow  good:"  whereas 
he  that  complains,  laments,  and  groans,  must  yield  never- 
theless, and  do  his  duty  though  in  spite  of  his  heart.  Now, 
what  a  madness  is  it  for  a  man  to  choose  rather  to  be  lugged 
than  to  follow  and  vainly  to  contend  with  the  calamities  of 
human  life?  Whatsoever  is  laid  upon  us  by  necessity,  we 
should  receive  generously;  for  it  is  foolish  to  strive  with  what 
we  cannot  avoid.  We  are  born  subjects,  and  to  obey  God 
is  perfect  liberty.  He  that  does  this  shall  be  free,  safe,  and 
quiet:  all  his  actions  shall  succeed  to  his  wish:  and  what 
can  any  man  desire  more  than  to  want  nothing  from  without, 
and  to  have  all  things  desirable  within  himself?  Pleasures  do 
but  weaken  our  minds,  and  sends  us  for  our  support  to  For- 
tune, who  gives  us  money  only  as  the  wages  of  slavery. 
We  must  stop  our  eyes  and  our  ears.  Ulysses  had  but  one 
rock  to  fear,  but  human  life  has  many.  Every  city,  nay, 
every  man,  is  one;  and  there  is  no  trusting  even  to  our 
nearest  friends.  Deliver  me  from  the  superstition  of  taking 
those  things  which  are  light  and  vain  for  felicities. 


CHAP.  XII 

Avarice  and  ambition  are  insatiable  and  restless 

The  man  that  would  be  truly  rich  must  not  increase  his 
fortune,  but  retrench  his  appetites:  for  riches  are  not  only 
superfluous,  but  mean,  and  little  more  to  the  possessor  than 
to  the  looker-on.  What  is  the  end  of  ambition  and  avarice, 
when  at  best  we  are  but  stewards  of  what  we  falsely  call  our 
own?  All  those  things  that  we  pursue  with  so  much  hazard 
and  expense  of  blood,  as  well  to  keep  as  to  get,  for  which  we 
break  faith  and  friendship,  what  are  they  but  the  mere  depo- 
sita  of  Fortune?  and  not  ours,  but  already  inclining  toward 
a  new  master.     There  is  nothing  our  own  but  that  which  we 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  149 

give  to  ourselves,  and  of  which  we  have  a  certain  and  an  in- 
expugnable possession.  Avarice  is  so  insatiable,  that  it  is  not 
in  the  power  of  liberality  to  content  it;  and  our  desires  are 
so  boundless,  that  whatever  we  get  is  but  in  the  way  to  get- 
ting more  without  end:  and  so  long,  as  we  are  solicitous  for 
the  increase  of  wealth,  we  lose  the  true  use  of  it;  and  spend 
our  time  in  putting  out,  calling  in,  and  passing  our  accounts, 
without  any  substantial  benefit,  either  to  the  world  or  to  our- 
selves. What  is  the  difference  betwixt  old  men  and  chil- 
dren? the  one  cries  for  nuts  and  apples,  and  the  other  for 
gold  and  silver:  the  one  sets  up  courts  of  justice,  hears  and 
determines,  acquits  and  condemns,  in  jest,  the  other  in 
earnest;  the  one  makes  houses  of  clay,  the  other  of  marble; 
so  that  the  works  of  old  men  are  nothing  in  the  world  but 
the  progress  and  improvement  of  children's  errors;  and  they 
are  to  be  admonished  and  punished  too  like  children,  not  in 
revenge  for  injuries  received,  but  as  a  correction  of  injuries 
done,  and  to  make  them  give  over.  There  is  some  substance 
yet  in  gold  and  silver;  but  as  to  judgments  and  statutes,  pro- 
curation and  continuance-money,  these  are  only  the  visions 
and  dreams  of  avarice.  Throw  a  crust  of  bread  to  a  dog,  he 
takes  it  open-mouth'd,  swallows  it  whole,  and  presently 
gapes  for  more:  just  so  do  we  with  the'  gifts  of  Fortune, 
down  they  go  without  chewing,  and  we  are  immediately 
ready  for  another  chop.  But  what  has  avarice  now  to  do  with 
gold  and  silver,  that  is  so  much  outdone  by  curiosities  of  a 
far  greater  value?  Let  us  no  longer  complain  that  there  was 
not  a  heavier  load  laid  upon  those  precious  metals,  or  that 
they  were  not  buried  deep  enough,  when  we  have  found  out 
ways  by  wax  and  parchments,  and  by  bloody  usurious  con- 
tracts, to  undo  one  another.  It  is  remarkable,  that  Provi- 
dence has  given  us  all  things  for  our  advantage  near  at  hand; 
but  iron,  gold,  and  silver,  (being  both  the  instrument  of  blood 
and  slaughter,  and  the  price  of  it)  Nature  has  hidden  in  the 
bowels  of  the  earth. 

There  is  no   avarice  without  some  punishment,  over  and 
above  that  which   it  is  to  itself.     How  mise- 
rable is  it  in  the  desire?    how  miserable  even     ^^"^^  ^^"" 
m  the  attammg  or  our  ends:     ror  money  is 
a  greater  torment  in  the  possession  than  it  is  in  the  pursuit. 
The  fear  of  losing  it  is  a  great  trouble,  the  loss  of  it  a  greater, 
and  it  is  made  a  greater  yet  by  opinion.     Nay,  even  in  the 
case  of  no  direct  loss  at  all,  the  covetous  man  loses  what  he 


I50  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

does  not  get.  It  is  true,  the  people  call  the  rich  man  a  happy 
man,  and  wish  themselves  in  his  condition;  but  can  any  con- 
dition be  worse  than  that  which  carries  vexation  and  envy 
along  with  it?  Neither  is  any  man  to  boast  of  his  fortune,  his 
herds  of  cattle,  his  number  of  slaves,  his  lands  and  palaces; 
for  comparing  that  which  he  has  to  that  which  he  further  co- 
vets, he  is  a  beggar.  No  man  can  possess  all  things,  but  any 
man  may  contemn  them;  and  the  contempt  of  riches  is  the 
nearest  way  to  the  gaining  of  them. 

Some   magistrates    are   made   for   money,    and   those    com- 
monly   are    bribed    with    money.     We    are    all 

°^^-^     ^  turned    merchants,     and    look    not    into    the 

quality  of  things,  but  into  the  price  of  them;  for  reward  we 
are  pious,  and  for  reward  again  we  are  impious.  We  are 
honest  so  long  as  we  may  thrive  upon  it;  but  if  the  devil 
himself  give  better  wages,  we  change  our  party.  Our  parents 
have  trained  us  up  into  an  admiration  of  gold  and  silver,  and 
the  love  of  it  is  grown  up  with  us  to  that  degree  that  when 
we  would  show  our  gratitude  to  Heaven,  we  make  presents 
of  those  metals.  This  is  it  that  makes  poverty  look  like  a 
curse  and  a  reproach;  and  the  poets  help  it  forward;  the 
chariot  of  the  sun  must  be  all  of  gold;  the  best  of  times 
must  be  the  Golden  Age,  and  thus  they  turn  the  greatest 
misery  of  mankind  into  the  greatest  blessings. 

Neither  does  avarice  make  us  only  unhappy  in  ourselves, 
but  malevolent  also  to  mankind.     The  soldier 
Avarice  makes        wishes  for  war;    the  husbandman  would  have 
us  ill-natured         j^j^   ^^^^   d^^ix;    the    lawyer   prays   for  dissen- 
as  well  as  mi-  .  ,  ,        .   .         -         -^    .   ,  ,      ^  ,         , 

serable  tion;    the  physician  tor  a  sickly  year;    he  that 

deals  in  curiosities,  for  luxury  and  excess,  for 
he  makes  up  his  fortunes  out  of  the  corruptions  of  the  age. 
High  winds  and  public  conflagrations  make  work  for  the 
carpenter  and  bricklayer,  and  one  man  lives  by  the  loss  of 
another;  some  few,  perhaps,  have  the  forune  to  be  detected, 
but  they  are  all  wicked  alike.  A  great  plague  makes  work 
for  the  sexton;  and,  in  one  word,  whosoever  gains  by  the 
dead  has  not  much  kindness  for  the  living.  Demades  of 
Athens  condemned  a  fellow  that  sold  necessaries  for  funerals, 
upon  proof  that  he  wished  to  make  himself  a  fortune  by  his 
trade,  which  could  not  be  but  by  a  great  mortality;  but  per- 
haps he  did  not  so  much  desire  to  have  many  customers,  as 
to  sell  dear,  and  buy  cheap;  besides,  that  all  of  that  trade 
might   have   been    condemned    as   well    as   he.        Whatsoever 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  151 

whets  our  appetites,  flatters  and  depresses  the  mind,  and,  by 

dilating  it,  weakens  it;    first    blowing  it  up,  and  then  filling 

and  deluding  it  with  vanity. 

To    proceed    now    from    the   most    prostitute    of   all    vices, 

sensuality   and    avarice,   to   that   which    passes 

in  the  world  for  the  most  generous,  the  thirst    '^    '^'^^"  ^'^^ 

c       ^  J       1        •    •  TT      1  1  crimes  that  at- 

of    glory    and    dommion.     If    they    that    run    ,,„^  ^^^,-,,-,„ 

mad  after  wealth  and  honour,  could  but  look 
into  the  hearts  of  them  that  have  already  gained  these 
points,  how  would  it  startle  them  to  see  those  hideous  cares 
and  crimes  that  wait  upon  ambitious  greatness:  all  those 
acquisitions  that  dazzle  the  eyes  of  the  vulgar  are  but  false 
pleasures,  slippery  and  uncertain.  They  are  achieved  with 
labour,  and  the  very  guard  of  them  is  painful.  Ambition 
pufFs  us  up  with  vanity  and  wind:  and  we  are  equally  trou- 
bled either  to  see  any  body  before  us,  or  no  body  behind  us; 
so  that  we  lie  under  a  double  envy;  for  whosoever  envies 
another  is  also  envied  himself.  What  matters  it  how  far 
Alexander  extended  his  conquests,  if  he  was  not  yet  satisfied 
with  what  he  had?  Every  man  wants  as  much  as  he  covets; 
and  it  is  lost  labour  to  pour  into  a  vessel  that  will  never  be 
full.  He  that  had  subdued  so  many  princes  and  nations,  upon 
the  killing  of  Clytus  (one  friend)  and  the  loss  of  Hyphestion 
(another)  delivered  himself  up  to  anger  and  sadness;  and 
when  he  was  master  of  the  world,  he  was  yet  a  slave  to  his 
passions.  Look  into  Cyrus,  Cambyses,  and  the  whole  Per- 
sian line,  and  you  shall  not  find  so  much  as  one  man  of  them 
that  died  satisfied  with  what  he  had  gotten.  Ambition  as- 
pires from  great  things  to  greater;  and  propounds  matters 
even  impossible,  when  it  has  once  arrived  at  things  beyond 
expectation.  It  is  a  kind  of  dropsy;  the  more  a  man  drinks, 
the  more  he  covets.  Let  any  man  but  observe  the  tumults 
and  the  crowds  that  attend  palaces;  what  affronts  must  we 
endure  to  be  admitted,  and  how  much  greater  when  we  are 
in.?  The  passage  to  virtue  is  fair,  but  the  way  to  greatness  is 
craggy,  and  it  stands  not  only  upon  a  precipice,  but  upon  ice 
too;  and  yet  it  is  a  hard  matter  to  convince  a  great  man  that 
his  station  is  slippery,  or  to  prevail  with  him  not  to  depend 
upon  his  greatness;  but  all  superfluities  are  hurtful.  A  rank 
crop  lays  the  corn;  too  great  a  burden  of  fruit  breaks  the 
bough;  and  our  minds  may  be  as  well  overcharged  with  an 
immoderate  happiness.  Nay,  though  we  ourselves  would  be 
at  rest,  our  fortune  will  not  suffer  it:    the  way  that  leads  to 


152  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 


/• 


honour  and  riches  leads  to  troubles;  and  we  find  the  causes 
of  our  sorrows  in  the  very  objects  of  our  delights.  What 
joy  is  there  in  feasting  and  luxury;  in  ambition  and  a  crowd 
of  clients;  in  the  arms  of  a  mistress,  or  in  the  vanity  of  an 
unprofitable  knowledge?  These  short  and  false  pleasures  de- 
ceive us;  and,  like  drunkenness,  revenge  the  jolly  madness 
of  one  hour  with  the  nauseous  and  sad  repentance  of  many. 
Ambition  is  like  a  gulf,  every  thing  is  swallowed  up  in  it  and 
buried,  beside  the  dangerous  consequences  of  it;  for  that 
which  one  has  taken  from  all,  may  be  easily  taken  away 
again  by  all  from  one.  It  was  not  either  virtue  or  reason, 
but  the  mad  love  of  a  deceitful  greatness,  that  animated  Pom- 
pey  in  his  wars,  either  abroad  or  at  home.  What  was  it  but 
his  ambition  that  hurried  him  to  Spain,  Africa,  and  else- 
where, when  he  was  too  great  already  in  every  body's 
opinion  but  his  own  ?  And  the  same  motive  had  Julius  Caesar, 
who  could  not,  even  then,  brook  a  superior  himself,  when 
the  commonwealth  had  submitted  unto  two  already.  Nor 
was  it  any  instinct  of  virtue  that  pushed  on  Marius,  who  at 
the  head  of  an  army  was  himself  yet  led  on  under  the  com- 
mand of  ambition:  but  he  came  at  last  to  the  deserved  fate 
of  other  wicked  men,  and  to  drink  himself  of  the  same  cup 
that  he  had  filled  to  others.  We  impose  upon  our  reason 
when  we  suffer  ourselves  to  be  transported  with  titles;  for 
we  know  that  they  are  nothing  but  a  more  glorious  sound; 
and  so  for  ornaments  and  gildings,  though  there  may  be  a 
lustre  to  dazzle  our  eyes,  our  understanding  tells  us  yet  that  it 
is  only  outside,  and  that  the  matter  under  it  is  only  coarse 
and  common. 

I   will   never  envy  those  that   the   people   call   great   and 

happy.  A  sound  mind  is  not  to  be  shaken 
Miserable  are  with  a  popular  and  vain  applause;  nor  is  it 
those -people  jj^   ^^   power    of  their   pride   to   disturb    the 

that  the  world  ^         c  i  •  a        i  ^ 

account  great  ^^^^^   °*    ^^^    happmess.      An    honest   man    is 

and  happy  known  now-a-days  by  the  dust  he  raises  upon 

the  way,  and  it  is  become  a  point  of  honour 
to  over-run  people,  and  keep  all  at  a  distance;  though  he 
that  is  put  out  of  the  way  may  perchance  be  happier  than  he 
that  takes  it.  He  that  would  exercise  a  power  profitable  to 
himself,  and  grievous  to  no  body  else,  let  him  practise  it  upon 
his  passion.  They  that  have  burnt  cities,  otherwise  invinci- 
ble, driven  armies  before  them,  and  bathed  themselves  in 
human  blood;    after  that  they  have  overcome  all  open  ene- 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  153 

mies,  they  have  been  vanquished  by  their  lust,  by  their  cruel- 
ty, and  without  any  resistance.  Alexander  was  possessed 
with  the  madness  of  laying  kingdoms  waste.  He  began  with 
Greece,  where  he  was  brought  up;  and  there  he  quarried 
himself  upon  that  in  it  which  was  best;  he  enslaved  Lace- 
demon,  and  silenced  Athens:  nor  was  he  content  with  the 
destruction  of  those  towns  which  his  father  Philip  had  either 
conquered  or  bought;  but  he  made  himself  the  enemy  of 
human  nature;  and,  like  the  worst  of  beasts,  he  worried  what 
he  could  not  eat.  Felicity  is  an  unquiet  thing;  it  torments 
itself,  and  puzzles  the  brain.  It  makes  some  people  ambi- 
tious, others  luxurious;  it  puiFs  up  some,  and  softens  others; 
only  (as  it  is  with  wine)  some  heads  bear  it  better  than 
others;  but  it  dissolves  all.  Greatness  stands  upon  a  preci- 
pice: and  if  prosperity  carries  a  man  never  so  little  beyond 
his  poise,  it  overbears  and  dashes  him  to  pieces.  It  is  a  rare 
thing  for  a  man  in  a  great  fortune  to  lay  down  his  happiness 
gently;  it  being  a  common  fate  for  a  man  to  sink  under  the 
weight  of  those  felicities  that  raise  him.  How  many  of  the 
nobility  did  Marius  bring  down  to  herdsmen  and  other  mean 
offices?  Nay,  in  the  very  moment  of  our  despising  servants, 
we  may  be  made  so  ourselves. 


CHAP.  XIII 

Hope  and  fear  are  the  bane  of  human  life 

No  man  can  be  said  to  be  perfectly  happy  that  runs  the 
risk  of  disappointment;  which  is  the  case  of  every  man  that 
fears  or  hopes  for  any  thing.  For  hope  and  fear,  how  distant 
soever  they  may  seem  to  be  the  one  from  the  other,  they  are 
both  of  them  yet  coupled  in  the  same  chain,  as  the  guard  and 
the  prisoner;  and  the  one  treads  upon  the  heels  of  the 
other.  The  reason  of  this  is  obvious,  for  they  are  passions 
that  look  forward,  and  are  ever  solicitous  for  the  future; 
only  hope  is  the  more  plausible  weakness  of  the  two,  which 
in  truth,  upon  the  main,  are  inseparable;  for  the  one  cannot 
be  without  the  other:  but  where  the  hope  is  stronger  than  the 
fear,  or  the  fear  than  the  hope,  we  call  it  the  one  or  the  other; 
for  without  fear  it  were  no  longer  hope,  but  certainty;  as 
without  hope  it  were  no  longer  fear,  but  despair.     We  may 


154  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

come  to  understand  whether  our  disputes  are  vain  or  not,  if 
we  do  but  consider  that  we  are  either  troubled  about  the 
present,  the  future,  or  both.  If  the  present,  it  is  easy  to  judge, 
and  the  future  is  uncertain.  It  is  a  fooHsh  thing  to  be  misera- 
ble beforehand  for  fear  of  misery  to  come;  for  a  man  loses 
the  present,  which  he  might  enjoy,  in  expectation  of  the 
future:  nay,  the  fear  of  losing  any  thing  is  as  bad  as  the  loss 
itself.  I  will  be  as  prudent  as  I  can,  but  not  timorous  or  care- 
less; and  I  will  bethink  myself,  and  forecast  what  inconve- 
niences may  happen  before  they  come.  It  is  true,  a  man  may 
fear,  and  yet  not  be  fearful;  which  is  no  more  than  to  have 
the  affection  of  fear  without  the  vice  of  it;  but  yet  a  frequent 
admittance  of  it  runs  into  a  habit.  It  is  a  shameful  and  an  un- 
manly thing  to  be  doubtful,  timorous,  and  uncertain;  to  set 
one  step  forward,  and  another  backward;  and  to  be  irresolute. 
Can  there  be  any  man  so  fearful,  that  had  not  rather  fall  once 
than  hang  always  in  suspense.? 

Our  miseries  are  endless  if  we  stand  in  fear  of  all  possibili- 
ties; the  best  way,  in  such   a  case,  is  to  drive 
Our  miseries ^         out    one   nail   with    another,    and    a    little    to 
are  endless,  ij        qualify  fear  with   hope;    which   may  serve  to 
possibilities  palliate   a  misfortune,   though   not  to   cure  it. 

There  is  not  any  thing  that  we  fear,  which  is 
so  certain  to  come,  as  it  is  certain  that  many  things  which  we 
do  fear  will  not  come;  but  we  are  loth  to  oppose  our  credu- 
lity when  it  begins  to  move  us,  and  so  to  bring  our  fear  to  the 
test.  Weill  but  "what  if  the  thing  we  fear  should  come  to 
pass.?"  Perhaps  it  will  be  the  better  for  us.  Suppose  it  to 
be  death  itself,  why  may  it  not  prove  the  glory  of  my  life.? 
Did  not  poison  make  Socrates  famous?  and  was  not  Cato's 
sword  a  great  part  of  his  honour?  "Do  we  fear  any  misfor- 
tune to  befal  us?"  We  are  not  presently  sure  that  it  will  hap- 
pen. How  many  deliverances  have  come  unlocked  for? 
and  how  many  mischiefs  that  we  looked  for  have  never  come 
to  pass?  It  is  time  enough  to  lament  when  it  comes,  and,  in 
the  interim,  to  promise  ourselves  the  best.  What  do  I  know 
but  something  or  other  may  delay  or  divert  it?  Some  have 
escaped  out  of  the  fire;  others,  when  a  house  has  fallen  over 
their  head,  have  received  no  hurt:  one  man  has  been  saved 
when  a  sword  was  at  his  throat;  another  has  been  condemn- 
ed, and  outlived  his  headsman:  so  that  ill-fortune,  we  see,  as 
well  as  good,  has  her  levities:  peradventure  it  will  be,  per- 
adventure  not;    and  until  it  comes  to  pass,  we  are  not  sure  of 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  155 

it:  we  do  many  times  take  words  in  a  worse  sense  than  they 
were  intended,  and  imagine  things  to  be  worse  taken  than 
they  are.  It  is  time  enough  to  bear  a  misfortune  when  it 
comes,  without  anticipating  it. 

He  that  would  deliver  himself  from  all  apprehensions  of 
the  future,  let  him  first  take  for  granted,  that 
all  fears  will  fall  upon  him;  and  then  examine  ^^P'^^^  J^^ 
and  measure  the  evil  that  he  fears,  which  he 
will  find  to  be  neither  great  nor  long.  Beside,  that  the  ills 
which  he  fears  he  may  suffer,  he  suffers  in  the  very  fear  of 
them.  As  in  the  symptoms  of  an  approaching  disease,  a 
man  shall  find  himself  lazy  and  listless:  a  weariness  in  his 
limbs,  with  a  yawning  and  shuddering  all  over  him;  so  it  is 
in  the  case  of  a  weak  mind,  it  fancies  misfortunes,  and  makes 
a  man  wretched  before  his  time.  Why  should  I  torment  my- 
self at  present  with  what  perhaps,  may  fall  out  fifty  years 
hence?  This  humour  is  a  kind  of  voluntary  disease,  and  an 
industrious  contrivance  of  our  own  unhappiness,  to  complain 
of  an  affliction  that  we  do  not  feel.  Some  are  not  only 
moved  with  grief  itself,  but  with  the  mere  opinion  of  it;  as 
children  will  start  at  a  shadow,  or  at  the  sight  of  a  deformed 
person.  If  we  stand  in  fear  of  violence  from  a  powerful 
enemy,  it  is  some  comfort  to  us,  that  whosoever  makes  him- 
self terrible  to  others  is  not  without  fear  himself:  the  least 
noise  makes  a  lion  start;  and  the  fiercest  of  beasts,  whatso- 
ever enrages  them,  makes  them  tremble  too:  a  shadow,  a 
voice,  an  unusual  odour,  rouses  them. 

The  things  most  to  be  feared  I  take  to  be  of  three  kinds; 
want,   sickness,    and    those   violences   that   may 
be  imposed   upon   us   by   a  strong  hand.     The    ^^^  things  most 
last    of    these    has    the    greatest    force,    be-    to  be  feared  are 

^^       J     1  •  1  •  1     want,  sickness, 

cause     It     comes     attended     with     noise     and    ^„^ ,;,,  ,,„/,„,,, 

tumult;      whereas       the       incommodities       of    of  men  in  power 

poverty    and    diseases    are   more    natural,    and 

steal  upon  us  in  silence,  without  any  external  circumstances 

of  horror:      but  the   other  marches   in   pomp,   with   fire   and 

sword,    gibbets,    racks,    hooks;     wild    beasts    to    devour    us; 

stakes  to  impale  us;      engines  to  tear  us  to  pieces;      pitched 

bags  to  burn  us  in,  and  a  thousand  other  exquisite  inventions 

of  cruelty.     No  wonder  then,  if  that  be  the  most  dreadful  to 

us  that  presents  itself  in  so  many  uncouth   shapes;    and  by 

the  very  solemnity  is  rendered   the  most  formidable.       The 

more  instruments   of  bodily   pain   the   executioner   shows   us, 


IS6  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

the  more  frightful  he  makes  himself:  for  many  a  man  that 
would  have  encounterd  death  in  any  generous  form,  with 
resolution  enough,  is  yet  overcome  with  the  manner  of  it. 
As  for  the  calamities  of  hunger  and  thirst,  inward  ulcers, 
scorching  fevers,  tormenting  fits  of  the  stone,  I  look  upon 
these  miseries  to  be  at  least  as  grievous  as  any  of  the  rest; 
only  they  do  not  so  much  affect  the  fancy,  because  they  lie 
out  of  sight.  Some  people  talk  high  of  dangers  at  a  dis- 
tance; but  (like  cowards)  when  the  executioner  comes  to  do 
his  duty,  and  show  us  the  fire,  the  axe,  the  scaffold,  and 
death  at  hand,  their  courage  fails  them  upon  the  very  pinch, 
when  they  have  most  need  of  it.  Sickness,  (I  hope)  capti- 
vity, fire,  are  no  new  things  to  us;  the  fall  of  houses,  fune- 
rals, and  conflagrations,  are  every  day  before  our  eyes.  The 
man  that  I  supped  with  last  night  is  dead  before  morning; 
why  should  I  wonder  then,  seeing  so  many  fall  about  me,  to 
be  hit  at  last  myself?  What  can  be  greater  madness  than  to 
cry  out,  "Who  would  have  dreamed  of  this?"  And  why  not, 
I  beseech  you  ?  Where  is  that  estate  that  may  not  be  reduced 
to  beggary?  That  dignity  which  may  not  be  followed  with 
banishment,  disgrace,  and  extreme  contempt?  that  kingdom 
that  may  not  suddenly  fall  to  ruin;  change  its  master,  and  be 
depopulated?  that  prince  that  may  not  pass  the  hand  of  a 
common  hangman?  That  which  is  one  man's  fortune  may  be 
another's;  but  the  foresight  of  calamities  to  come  breaks 
the  violence  of  them. 


CHAP.  XIV 

It  is  according  to  the  true  or  false  estimate  of  things 
that  we  are  happy  or  miserable 

How  many  things  are  there  that  the  fancy  makes  terrible 
by  night,  which  the  day  turns  into  ridiculous?  What  is  there 
in  labour,  or  in  death,  that  a  man  should  be  afraid  of?  They 
are  much  slighter  in  act  than  in  contemplation;  and  we  may 
contemn  them,  but  we  zvill  not:  so  that  it  is  not  because  they 
are  hard  that  we  dread  them,  but  they  are  hard  because  we 
are  first  afraid  of  them.  Pains,  and  other  violences  of  For- 
tune, are  the  same  thing  to  us  that  goblins  are  to  children:  we 
are  more  scared  with  them  than  hurt.     We  take  up  our  opin- 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  157 

ions  upon  trust,  and  err  for  company,  still  judging  that  to  be 
best  that  has  most  competitors.  We  make  a  false  calculation 
of  matters,  because  we  advise  with  opinion,  and  not  with  Na- 
ture; and  this  misleads  us  to  a  higher  esteem  for  riches, 
honour,  and  power,  than  they  are  worth:  we  have  been  used 
to  admire  and  recommend  them,  and  a  private  error  is  quickly 
turned  into  a  public.  The  greatest  and  the  smallest  things  are 
equally  hard  to  be  comprehended;  we  account  many  things 
great,  for  want  of  understanding  what  effectually  is  so:  and 
we  reckon  other  things  to  be  small,  which  we  find  frequently 
to  be  of  the  highest  value.  Vain  things  only  move  vain  minds. 
The  accidents  that  we  so  much  boggle  at  are  not  terrible  in 
themselves,  but  they  are  made  so  by  our  infirmities;  but  we 
consult  rather  what  we  hear  than  what  we  feel,  without  exa- 
mining, opposing,  or  discussing  the  things  we  fear;  so  that 
we  either  stand  still  and  tremble,  or  else  directly  run  for  it,  as 
those  troops  did,  that,  upon  the  raising  of  the  dust,  took  a  flock 
of  sheep  for  the  enemy.  When  the  body  and  mind  are  cor- 
rupted, it  is  no  wonder  if  all  things  prove  intolerable;  and 
not  because  they  are  so  in  truth,  but  because  we  are  dissolute 
and  foolish:  for  we  are  infatuated  to  such  a  degree,  that,  be- 
twixt the  common  madness  of  men,  and  that  which  falls  under 
the  care  of  the  physician,  there  is  but  this  difference,  the  one 
labours  of  a  disease,  and  the  other  of  a  false  opinion. 

The   Stoics   hold,   that   all  those  torments  that  commonly 
draw  from  us  groans  and  ejaculations,  are  in 

themselves     trivial     and     contemptible.       But    ^^^  ^^^'^^  ^^" 
^u  u*    i.£i  •  ^     /I  ^  make  the  best 

these    highiiown    expressions    apart    (how    true      f  h'  1 1 

soever)  let  us  discourse  the  point  at  the  rate  of 

ordinary  men,  and  not  make  ourselves  miserable  before  our 

time;   for  the  things  we  apprehend  to  be  at  hand  may  possibly 

never  come  to  pass.     Some  things  trouble  us  more  than  they 

should,  other  things  sooner;    and  some  things  again  disorder 

us  that  ought  not  to  trouble  us  at  all:  so  that  we  either  enlarge, 

or  create,  or  anticipate  our  disquiets.     For  the  first  part,  let  it 

rest  as  a  matter  in  controversy;   for  that  which  I  account  light, 

another  perhaps  will  judge  insupportable!     One  man  laughs 

under  the  lash,  and  another  whines  for  a  philip.     How  sad  a 

calamity  is   poverty  to  one  man,  which  to   another  appears 

rather  desirable  than  inconvenient.?     For  the  poor  man,  who 

has  nothing  to  lose,  has  nothing  to  fear:    and  he  that  would 

enjoy  himself  to  the  satisfaction  of  his  soul,  must  be  either  poor 

indeed,  or  at  least  look  as  if  he  were  so.     Some  people  are  ex- 


158  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

tremely  dejected  with  sickness  and  pain;  whereas  Epicurus 
blessed  his  fate  with  his  last  breath,  in  the  acutest  torments  of 
the  stone  imaginable.  And  so  for  banishment,  which  to  one 
man  is  so  grievous,  and  yet  to  another  is  no  more  than  a  bare 
change  of  place:  a  thing  that  we  do  every  day  for  our  health, 
pleasure,  nay,  and  upon  the  account  even  of  common  business. 
How  terrible  is  death  to  one  man,  which  to  another  appears 
the  greatest  providence  in  nature,  even  toward  all  ages  and 
conditions?  It  is  the  wish  of  some,  the  relief  of  many,  and  the 
end  of  all.  It  sets  the  slave  at  liberty,  carries  the  banished 
man  home,  and  places  all  mortals  upon  the  same  level:  inso- 
much, that  life  itself  were  punishment  without  it.  When  I 
see  tyrants,  tortures,  violences,  the  prospect  of  death  is  a 
consolation  to  me,  and  the  only  remedy  against  the  in- 
juries of  life. 

Nay,  so  great  are  our  mistakes  in  the  true  estimate  of  things, 
that  we  have  hardly  done  any  thing  that  we  have  not  had 
reason  to  wish  undone;  and  we  have  found  the  things  we 
feared  to  be  more  desirable  than  those  we  coveted.  Our 
very  prayers  have  been  more  pernicious 
Out  very  fray-       than    the    curses    of    our    enemies;     and    we 

ers  many  times  ^  •       ^      i  r 

^^  must  pray  agam  to  have  our  rormer  prayers 

forgiven.  Where  is  the  wise  man  that 
wishes  to  himself  the  wishes  of  his  mother,  nurse,  or  his  tutor; 
the  worst  of  enemies,  with  the  intention  of  the  best  of  friends.? 
We  are  undone  if  their  prayers  be  heard;  and  it  is  our  duty 
to  pray  that  they  may  not;  for  they  are  no  other  than  well- 
meaning  execrations.  They  take  evil  for  good,  and  one  wish 
fights  with  another:  give  me  rather  the  contempt  of  all  those 
things  whereof  they  wish  me  the  greatest  plenty.  We  are 
equally  hurt  by  some  that  pray  for  us,  and  by  others  that  curse 
us:  the  one  imprints  in  us  a  false  fear,  and  the  other  does  us 
mischief  by  a  mistake:  so  that  it  is  no  wonder  if  mankind  be 
miserable,  when  we  are  brought  up  from  the  very  cradle  under 
the  imprecations  of  our  parents.  We  pray  for  trifles,  without 
so  much  as  thinking  of  the  greatest  blessings;  and  we  are  not 
ashamed  many  times  to  ask  God  for  that  which  we  should 
blush  to  own  to  our  neighbour. 

It  is  with  us  as  with  an  innocent  that  my  father  had  in  his 

family;   she    fell    blind   on    a   sudden,    and    no 

^^  hi  ^^^!j  ^^n     body     could     persuade     her     she     was     blind. 

Tolbeiieteir       "^^^     ^9"^^     ""^     ^"'^"^^     *^^     house,"     she 
cried,   "it  was   so   dark,"   and   was   still   call- 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  159 

ing  to  go  abroad.  That  which  we  laughed  at  in  her  we  find 
to  be  true  in  ourselves,  we  are  covetous  and  ambitious;  but  the 
world  shall  never  bring  us  to  acknowledge  it,  and  we  impute 
it  to  the  place:  nay,  we  are  the  worse  of  the  two;  for  that 
blind  fool  called  for  a  guide,  and  we  wander  about  without 
one.  It  is  a  hard  matter  to  cure  those  that  will  not  believe 
they  are  sick.  We  are  ashamed  to  admit  a  master,  and  we 
are  too  old  to  learn.  Vice  still  goes  before  virtue:  so  that  we 
have  two  works  to  do:  we  must  cast  off  the  one,  and  learn 
the  other.  By  one  evil  we  make  way  to  another,  and  only 
seek  things  to  be  avoided,  or  those  of  which  we  are  soon 
weary.  That  which  seemed  too  much  when  we  wished  for 
it,  proves  too  little  when  we  have  it;  and  it  is  not,  as  some 
imagine,  that  felicity  is  greedy,  but  it  is  little  and  narrow,  and 
cannot  satisfy  us.  That  which  we  take  to  be  very  high  at  a 
distance,  we  find  to  be  but  low  when  we  come  at  it.  And  the 
business  is,  we  do  not  understand  the  true  state  of  things:  we 
are  deceived  by  rumours;  when  we  have  gained  the  thing 
we  aimed  at,  we  find  it  to  be  either  ill  or  empty;  or  perchance 
less  than  we  expect,  or  otherwise  perhaps  great,  but  not 
good. 


CHAP.  XV 

The  blessings  of  temperance  and  moderation 

There  is  not  any  thing  that  is  necessary  to  us  but  we  have 
it  either  cheap  or  gratis:  and  this  is  the  provision  that  our 
heavenly  Father  has  made  for  us,  whose  bounty  was  never 
wanting  to  our  needs.  It  is  true  the  belly  craves  and  calls 
upon  us,  but  then  a  small  matter  contents  it:  a  little  bread 
and  water  is  sufficient,  and  all  the  rest  is  but  superfluous. 
He  that  lives  according  to  reason  shall  never  be  poor,  and  he 
that  governs  his  life  by  opinion  shall  never  be  rich;  for  na- 
ture is  limited,  but  fancy  is  boundless.  As  for  meat,  clothes, 
and  lodging,  a  little  feeds  the  body,  and  as  little  covers  it; 
so  that  if  mankind  would  only  attend  human  nature,  without 
gaping  at  superfluities,  a  cook  would  be  found  as  needless  as 
a  soldier:  for  we  may  have  necessaries  upon  very  easy 
terms;  whereas  we  put  purselves  to  great  pains  for  excesses. 
When  we   are  cold,  we  may  cover  ourselves  with   skins  of 


i6o  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

beasts;  and,  against  violent  heats,  we  have  natural  grottoes; 
or  with  a  few  osiers  and  a  little  clay  we  may  defend  ourselves 
against  all  seasons.  Providence  has  been  kinder  to  us  than 
to  leave  us  to  live  by  our  wits,  and  to  stand  in  need  of  inven- 
tion and  arts.  It  is  only  pride  and  curiosity  that  involves  us 
in  difficulties:  if  nothing  will  serve  a  man  but  rich  clothes  and 
furniture,  statues  and  plate,  a  numerous  train  of  servants, 
and  the  rarities  of  all  nations,  it  is  not  Fortune's  fault,  but 
his  own,  that  he  is  not  satisfied:  for  his  desires  are  insatiable, 
and  this  is  not  a  thirst,  but  a  disease;  and  if  he  were  master 
of  the  whole  world,  he  would  be  still  a  beggar.  It  is  the 
mind  that  makes  us  rich  and  happy,  in  what  condition  soever 
we  are;  and  money  signifies  no  more  to  it  than  it  does  to  the 
gods.  If  the  religion  be  sincere,  no  matter  for  the  orna- 
ments: it  is  only  luxury  and  avarice  that  makes  poverty 
grievous  to  us;  for  it  is  a  very  small  matter  that  does  our  bu- 
siness; and  when  we  have  provided  against  cold,  hunger, 
and  thirst,  all  the  rest  is  but  vanity  and  excess:  and  there  is 
no  need  of  expense  upon  foreign  delicacies,  or  the  artifices  of 
the  kitchen.  What  is  he  the  worse  for  poverty  that  despises 
these  things;  nay,  is  he  not  rather  the  better  for  it,  because 
he  is  not  able  to  go  to  the  price  of  them  ?  for  he  is  kept  sound 
whether  he  will  or  not:  and  that  which  a  man  cannot  do, 
looks  many  times  as  if  he  would  not. 

When  I   look   back  into  the  moderation  of  past  ages,   it 
makes    me    ashamed    to    discourse,    as    if    po- 
The  moderation      ^  ^^^   ^^^^   ^f  consolation;     for   we 

of  past  ages  ■'  ,     ■'      ,  _    . 

are    now    come    to    that    degree  or    mtemper- 

ance,  that  a  fair  patrimony  is  too  little  for  a  meal.  Homer 
had  but  one  servant,  Plato  three,  and  Zeno  (the  master  of 
the  masculine  sect  of  Stoics)  had  none  at  all.  The  daughters 
of  Scipio  had  their  portions  out  of  the  common  treasury,  for 
their  father  left  them  not  worth  a  penny:  how  happy  were 
their  husbands  that  had  the  people  of  Rome  for  their  father- 
in-law.?  Shall  any  man  now  contemn  poverty  after  these  emi- 
nent examples,  which  are  sufficient  not  only  to  justify  but  to 
recommend  it?  Upon  Diogenes's  only  servant  running  away 
from  him,  he  was  told  where  he  was,  and  persuaded  to  fetch 
him  back  again:  "What,"  says  he,  "can  Manes  live  without 
Diogenes,  and  not  Diogenes  without  Manes?  and  so  let  him 
go."  The  piety  and  moderation  of  Scipio  has  made  his  me- 
mory more  venerable  than  his  arms;  and  more  yet  after  he 
left  his  country  than  while  he  defended  it:    for  matters  were 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  i6i 

come  to  that  pass,  that  either  Scipio  must  be  injurious  to 
Rome  or  Rome  to  Scipio.  Coarse  bread  and  water  to  a  tem- 
perate man  is  as  good  as  a  feast;  and  the  very  herbs  of  the 
field  yield  a  nourishment  to  man  as  well  as  to  beasts.  It  was 
not  by  choice  meats  and  perfumes  that  our  forefathers  recom- 
mended themselves,  but  in  virtuous  actions,  and  the  sweat  of 
honest,  military,  and  of  many  labours. 

While  nature  lay  in  common,  and  all  her  benefits  were 
promiscuously  enjoyed,  what  could  be  happier  than  the  state 
of  mankind,  when  people  lived  without  avarice 
or  envy.?  What  could  be  richer  than  when  ^^^ -^^^^^  °/ 
there  was  not  a  poor  man  to  be  found  in  the 
world.?  So  soon  as  this  impartial  bounty  of  Providence  came 
to  be  restrained  by  covetousness,  and  that  particulars  appro- 
priated that  to  themselves  which  was  intended  for  all,  then 
did  poverty  creep  into  the  world,  when  some  men,  by  desir- 
ing more  than  came  to  their  share,  lost  their  title  to  the  rest; 
a  loss  never  to  be  repaired;  for  though  we  may  come  yet  to 
get  much,  we  once  had  all.  The  fruits  of  the  earth  were  in 
those  days  divided  among  the  inhabitants  of  it,  without  either 
want  or  excess.  So  long  as  men  contented  themselves  with 
their  lot,  there  was  no  violence,  no  engrossing  or  hiding  of 
those  benefits  for  particular  advantages,  which  were  appoint- 
ed for  the  community;  but  every  man  had  as  much  care  for 
his  neighbour  as  for  himself.  No  arms  or  bloodshed,  no  war, 
but  with  wild  beasts:  but  under  the  protection  of  a  wood  or 
a  cave,  they  spent  their  days  without  cares,  and  their  nights 
without  groans;  their  innocence  was  their  security  and  their 
protection.  There  was  as  yet  no  beds  of  state,  no  ornaments 
of  pearl  or  embroidery,  nor  any  of  those  remorses  that  at- 
tend them;  but  the  heavens  were  their  canopy,  and  the 
glories  of  them  their  spectacle.  The  motions  of  the  orbs,  the 
courses  of  the  stars,  and  the  wonderful  order  of  Providence, 
was  their  contemplation.  There  was  no  fear  of  the  house  fall- 
ing, or  the  rustling  of  a  rat  behind  the  arras;  they  had  no  pa- 
laces then  like  cities;  but  they  had  open  air,  and  breathing 
room,  crystal  fountains,  refreshing  shades,  the  meadows 
dressed  up  in  their  native  beauty,  and  such  cottages  as  were 
according  to  nature,  and  wherein  they  lived  contentedly, 
without  fear  either  of  losing  or  of  falling.  These  people  lived 
without  either  solitude  or  fraud;  and  yet  I  must  call  them 
rather  happy  than  wise.  That  men  were  generally  better  be- 
fore they  were  corrupted  than  after,  I  make  no  doubt;    and  I 


i62  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

am  apt  to  believe  that  they  were  both  stronger  and  hardier 
too;  but  their  wits  were  not  yet  come  to  maturity;  for  Na- 
ture does  not  give  virtue;  and  it  is  a  kind  of  art  to  become 
good.  They  had  not  as  yet  torn  up  the  bowels  of  the  earth 
for  gold,  silver,  or  precious  stones;  and  so  far  were  they  from 
killing  any  man,  as  we  do,  for  a  spectacle,  that  they  were  not 
as  yet  come  to  it,  either  in  fear  or  anger;  nay,  they  spared 
the  very  fishes.  But,  after  all  this,  they  were  innocent  be- 
cause they  were  ignorant;  and  there  is  a  great  difference  be- 
twixt not  knowing  how  to  offend  and  not  being  willing  to  do 
it.  They  had,  in  that  rude  life,  certain  images  and  re- 
semblances of  virtue,  but  yet  they  fell  short  of  virtue  itself, 
which  comes  only  by  institution,  learning,  and  study,  as  it  is 
perfected  by  practice.  It  is  indeed  the  end  for  which  we 
were  born,  but  yet  it  did  not  come  into  the  world  with  us; 
and  in  the  best  of  men,  before  they  are  instructed,  we  find 
rather  the  matter  and  the  seeds  of  virtue  than  the  virtue  itself. 
It  is  the  wonderful  benignity  of  Nature  that  has  laid  open  to 
us  all  things  that  may  do  us  good,  and  only  hid  those  things 
from  us  that  may  hurt  us;  as  if  she  durst  not  trust  us  with 
gold  and  silver,  or  with  iron,  which  is  the  instrument  of  war 
and  contention,  for  the  other.  It  is  we  ourselves  that  have 
drawn  out  of  the  earth  both  the  causes  and  the  instruments  of 
our  dangers:  and  we  are  so  vain  as  to  set  the  highest  esteem 
upon  those  things  to  which  Nature  has  assigned  the  lowest 
place.  What  can  be  more  coarse  and  rude  in  the  mine  than 
these  precious  metals,  or  more  slavish  and  dirty  than  the  peo- 
ple that  dig  and  work  them?  and  yet  they  defile  our  minds 
more  than  our  bodies,  and  make  the  possessor  fouler  than 
the  artificer  of  them.  Rich  men,  in  fine,  are  only  the  greater 
slaves;   both  the  one  and  the  other  wants  a  great  deal. 

Happy  is  that  man  that  eats  only  for  hunger,  and  drinks 

only  for  thirst;  that  stands  upon  his  own 
A  temperate  \&gs,    and    lives    by    reason,    not    by    example; 

hfe  IS  a    appy       ^^^    provides    for   use    and    necessity,    not    for 

ostentation  and  pomp.  Let  us  curb  our  appe- 
tites, encourage  virtue,  and  rather  be  beholden  to  ourselves 
for  riches  than  to  Fortune,  who,  when  a  man  draws  himself 
into  a  narrow  compass,  has  the  least  mark  at  him.  Let  my 
bed  be  plain  and  clean,  and  my  clothes  so  too:  my  meat 
without  much  expense,  or  many  waiters,  and  neither  a 
burden  to  my  purse  nor  to  my  body,  not  to  go  out  the  same 
way  it  came  in.     That  which  is  too  little  for  luxury,  is  abun- 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  163 

dandy  enough  for  nature.  The  end  of  eating  and  drinking  is 
satiety;  now,  what  matters  it  though  one  eats  and  drinks 
more,  and  another  less,  so  long  as  the  one  is  not  a-hungry, 
nor  the  other  athirst?  Epicurus,  that  limits  pleasure  to  na- 
ture, as  the  Stoics  do  virtue,  is  undoubtedly  in  the  right; 
and  those  that  cite  him  to  authorise  their  voluptuousness  do 
exceedingly  mistake  him,  and  only  seek  a  good  authority  for 
an  evil  cause:  for  their  pleasures  of  sloth,  gluttony,  and  lust, 
have  no  affinity  at  all  with  his  precepts  or  meaning.  It  is 
true,  that  at  first  sight  his  philosophy  seems  effeminate;  but 
he  that  looks  nearer  him  will  find  him  to  be  a  very  brave  man 
only  in  a  womanish  dress. 

It  is  a  common  objection  I  know,  that  these  philosophers 
do  not  live  at  the  rate  they  talk;  for  they  can 
flatter  their  superiors,  gather  estates,  and  be  as  ^^^  philoso- 
much  concerned  at  the  loss  of  fortune,  or  of  ^  ^^^  ^"^  '^'^ 
friends,  as  other  people:  as  sensible  of  re- 
proaches, as  luxurious  in  their  eating  and  drinking,  their  fur- 
niture, their  houses;  as  magnificent  in  their  plate,  servants, 
and  officers;  as  profuse  and  curious  in  their  gardens,  &c. 
Well!  and  what  of  all  this,  or  if  it  were  twenty  times  more? 
It  is  some  degree  of  virtue  for  a  man  to  condemn  himself; 
and  if  he  cannot  come  up  to  the  best,  to  be  yet  better  than 
the  worst;  and  if  he  cannot  wholly  subdue  his  appetites, 
however  to  check  and  diminish  them.  If  I  do  not  live  as  I 
preach,  take  notice  that  I  do  not  speak  of  myself,  but  of  vir- 
tue, nor  am  I  so  much  offended  with  other  men's  vices  as 
with  my  own.  All  this  was  objected  to  Plato,  Epicurus, 
Zeno;  nor  is  any  virtue  so  sacred  as  to  escape  malevolence. 
The  Cynic  Demetrius  was  a  great  instance  of  severity  and 
mortification;  and  one  that  imposed  upon  himself  neither  to 
possess  any  thing,  nor  so  much  as  to  ask  it:  and  yet  he  had 
this  scorn  put  upon  him,  that  his  profession  was  poverty,  not 
virtue.  Plato  is  blamed  for  asking  money:  Aristotle  for  re- 
ceiving it;  Democritus  for  neglecting  it;  Epicurus  for  consum- 
ing it.  How  happy  were  we  if  we  could  but  come  to  imitate 
these  men's  vices;  for  if  we  knew  our  own  condition,  we 
should  find  work  enough  at  home.  But  we  are  like  people 
that  are  making  merry  at  a  play  or  a  tavern  when  their  own 
houses  are  on  fire,  and  yet  they  know  nothing  of  it.  Nay, 
Cato  himself  was  said  to  be  a  drunkard;  but  drunkenness  itself 
shall  sooner  be  proved  to  be  no  crime  than  Cato  dishonest. 
They  that  demolish  temples,  and  overturn  altars,  show  their 


i64  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

good  will,  though  they  can  do  the  gods  no  hurt;  and  so  it 
fares  with  those  that  invade  the  reputation  of  great  men.  If 
the  professors  of  virtue  be,  as  the  world  calls  them,  avaricious, 
libidinous,  ambitious;  what  are  they  then  that  have  a  detes- 
tation for  the  very  name  of  it?  But  malicious  natures  do  not 
want  wit  to  abuse  honester  men  than  themselves.  It  is  the 
practice  of  the  multitude  to  bark  at  eminent  men,  as  little  dogs 
do  at  strangers;  for  they  look  upon  other  men's  virtues  as  the 
upbraiding  of  their  own  wickedness.  We  should  do  well  to 
commend  those  that  are  good;  if  not,  let  us  pass  them  over; 
but  however,  let  us  spare  ourselves;  for  beside  the  blasphem- 
ing of  virtue,  our  rage  is  to  no  purpose.  But  to  return  now  to 
my  text. 

We  are  ready  enough  to  limit  others,  but  loth  to  put  bounds 

and     restraint     upon     ourselves;      though     we 

It  IS  good  to  know    that    many    times    a    greater    evil    is 

pracuse  frugal-        ^^^^^     ,         ^     ^  ^^^     ^^^     ^-^^^     ^^^^    ^-jj 

ttV  171  T)lCHtV 

not  be  brought  to  virtue  by  precepts,  comes 
to  it  frequently  by  necessity.  Let  us  try  a  little  to  eat  upon 
a  joint-stool,  to  serve  ourselves,  to  live  within  compass,  and 
accommodate  our  clothes  to  the  end  they  were  made  for. 
Occasional  experiments  of  our  moderation  give  us  the  best 
proof  of  our  firmness  and  virtue.  A  well-governed  appetite 
is  a  great  part  of  liberty;  and  it  is  a  blessed  lot,  that  since  no 
man  can  have  all  things  that  he  would  have,  we  may  all  of  us 
forbear  desiring  what  we  have  not.  It  is  the  office  of  Tem- 
perance to  over-rule  us  in  our  pleasures:  some  she  rejects, 
others  she  qualifies  and  keeps  within  bounds;  Oh!  the  delights 
of  rest,  when  a  man  comes  to  be  weary;  and  of  meat,  when 
he  is  heartily  hungry!  I  have  learned  (says  our  author)  by 
one  journey,  how  many  things  we  have  that  are  superfluous, 
and  how  easily  they  might  be  spared;  for  when  we  are  with- 
out them,  upon  necessity,  we  do  not  so  much  as  feel  the 
want  of  them.  This  is  the  second  blessed  day  (says  he)  that 
my  friend  and  I  have  travelled  together;  one  waggon  carries 
ourselves  and  our  servants:  my  mattress  lies  upon  the  ground, 
and  I  upon  that:  our  diet  answerable  to  our  lodging;  and 
never  without  our  figs  and  our  table-books.  The  muleteer 
without  shoes,  and  the  mules  only  prove  themselves  to  be 
alive  by  their  walking.  In  this  equipage,  I  am  not  willing,  I 
perceive,  to  own  myself,  but  as  often  as  we  happen  into  better 
company  I  presently  fall  a  blushing;  which  shows  that  I  am 
not  yet  confirmed  in  those  things  which  I  approve  and  com- 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  165 

mend;  I  am  not  yet  come  to  own  my  frugality;  for  he  that  is 
ashamed  to  be  seen  in  a  mean  condition  would  be  proud  of  a 
splendid  one.  I  value  myself  upon  what  passengers  think  of 
me,  and  tacitly  renounce  my  principles;  whereas,  I  should 
rather  lift  up  my  voice  to  be  heard  by  mankind,  and  tell 
them,  "You  are  all  mad;  your  minds  are  set  upon  superflu- 
ities, and  you  value  no  man  for  his  virtues."  I  came  one 
night  weary  home,  and  threw  myself  upon  the  bed,  with  this 
consideration  about  me,  "There  is  nothing  ill  that  is  well 
taken."  My  baker  tells  me,  he  has  no  bread;  but,  says  he,  I 
may  get  some  of  your  tenants,  though  I  fear  it  is  not  good. 
No  matter,  said  I,  for  I  will  stay  until  it  be  better;  that  is  to 
say,  until  my  stomach  will  be  glad  of  worse.  It  is  discretion 
sometimes  to  practise  temperance,  and  wont  ourselves  to  a 
little;  for  there  are  many  difficulties,  both  of  time  and  place, 
that  may  force  us  upon  it.  When  we  come  to  the  matter  of 
patrimony,  how  strictly  do  we  examine  what  every  man  is 
worth  before  we  will  trust  him  with  a  penny:  "Such  a  man," 
we  cry,  "has  a  great  estate,  but  it  is  shrewdly  encumbered; 
a  very  fair  house,  but  it  was  built  with  borrowed  money;  a 
numerous  family,  but  he  does  not  keep  touch  with  his  credit- 
ors; if  his  debts  were  paid,  he  would  not  be  worth  a  groat." 
Why  do  we  not  take  the  same  course  in  other  things,  and  ex- 
amine what  every  man  is  worth?  It  is  not  enough  to  have  a 
long  train  of  attendants,  vast  possessions,  or  an  incredible 
treasure  in  money  and  jewels;  a  man  may  be  poor  for  all 
this.  There  is  only  this  difference  at  best;  one  man  borrows 
of  the  usurer,  and  the  other  oi  fortune.  What  signifies  the  car- 
ving or  gilding  of  the  chariot;  is  the  master  ever  the  better  of  it? 
We  cannot  close  up  this  chapter  with  a  more  generous  in- 
stance of  moderation   than  that  of  Fabricius. 

Pyrrhus  tempted   him  with   a   sum    of  money    T*'^  modera- 

t  1  •  1     r.       I       )         1  tion  and  brave' 

to    betray    his    country;     and    Pyrrhus  s    phy-    ^^o/F^iWaW 

sician  offered  Fabricius,  for  a  sum  of  money 
to  poison  his  master;  but  he  was  too  brave,  either  to  be  over- 
come by  gold,  or  to  be  overcome  by  poison;  so  that  he  re- 
fused the  money,  and  advised  Pyrrhus  to  have  a  care  of 
treachery;  and  this  in  the  heat  too  of  a  licentious  war.  Fabri- 
cius valued  himself  upon  his  poverty,  and  was  as  much  above 
the  thought  of  riches  as  of  poison.  "Live,  Pyrrhus,"  says  he, 
"by  my  friendship;  and  turn  that  to  thy  satisfaction,  which 
was  before  thy  trouble;"  that  is  to  say,  that  Fabricius  could 
not  be  corrupted. 


1 66  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

CHAP.   XVI 

Constancy  of  mind  gives  a  man  reputation,  and  makes 
him  happy  in  despite  of  all  misfortune 

The  whole  duty  of  man  may  be  reduced  to  the  two  points 
of  abstinence  and  patience;  temperance  in  prosperity,  and 
courage  in  adversity.  We  have  already  treated  of  the  for- 
mer:  and  the  other  follows  now  in  course. 

Epicurus  will  have  it,   that  a  wise  man  will  bear  all  in- 
juries;    but    the    Stoics   will    not    allow   those 
wise^  man  is       things  to  be  injuries  which  Epicurus  calls  so. 
above  tnmnes  -nt  i  •  7  1  •        i 

JNow,    betwixt    these    two,    there    is    the    same 

difference  that  we  find  betwixt  two  gladiators;  the  one  re- 
ceives wounds,  but  yet  maintains  his  ground,  the  other  tells 
the  people,  when  he  is  in  blood,  that  it  is  but  a  scratch,  and 
will  not  suffer  any  body  to  part  them.  An  injury  cannot 
be  received,  but  it  must  be  done;  but  it  may  be  done,  and 
yet  not  received;  as  a  man  may  be  in  the  water,  and  not 
swim,  but  if  he  swims,  it  is  presumed  that  he  is  in  the  water. 
Or  if  a  blow  or  a  shot  be  levelled  at  us,  it  may  so  happen 
that  a  man  may  miss  his  aim,  or  some  accident  interpose  that 
may  divert  the  mischief.  That  which  is  hurt  is  passive,  and 
inferior  to  that  which  hurts  it.  But  you  will  say,  that  Socrates 
was  condemned  and  put  to  death,  and  so  received  an  in- 
jury; but  I  answer,  that  the  tyrants  did  him  an  injury,  and 
yet  he  received  none.  He  that  steals  any  thing  from  me  and 
hides  it  in  my  own  house,  though  I  have  not  lost  it,  yet  he  has 
stolen  it.  He  that  lies  with  his  own  wife,  and  takes  her  for 
another  woman,  though  the  woman  be  honest,  the  man  is  an 
adulterer.  Suppose  a  man  gives  me  a  draught  of  poison,  and 
it  proves  not  strong  enough  to  kill  me,  his  guilt  is  never  the 
less  for  the  disappointment.  He  that  makes  a  pass  at  me  is 
as  much  a  murderer,  though  I  put  it  by,  as  if  he  had  struck 
me  to  the  heart.  It  is  the  intention,  not  the  effect,  that  makes 
the  wickedness.  He  is  a  thief  that  has  the  will  of  killing  and 
slaying,  before  his  hand  is  dipt  in  blood;  as  it  is  sacrilege,  the 
very  intention  of  laying  violent  hands  upon  holy  things.  If  a 
philosopher  be  exposed  to  torments,  the  axe  over  his  head, 
his  body  wounded,  his  guts  in  his  hands,  I  will  allow  him  to 
groan;  for  virtue  itself  cannot  divest  him  of  the  nature  of  a 
man;    but  if  his  mind  stand  firm,  he  has  discharged  his  part. 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  167 

A  great  mind  enables  a  man  to  maintain  his  station  with 
honour;  so  that  he  only  makes  use  of  what  he  meets 
in  his  way,  as  a  pilgrim  that  would  fain  be  at  his  jour- 
ney's end. 

It's  the  excellency  of  a  great  mind  to  ask  nothing,  and  to 
want    nothing;      and     to     say,     "I    will    have 
nothing    to    do    with     fortune,    that    repulses    ^  ^^^^^  ^'^^ 
Cato,    and    prefers    Vatinius."     He   that    quits    ^fi^'^  asks  any 
his   hold,    and    accounts   any  thing   good    that    ^^y  ^j^i^^ 
is    not    honest,    runs    gaping,    after    casualties, 
spends  his  days  in  anxiety  and  vain  expectation,  that  man  is 
miserable.     And  yet  it  is  hard,  you  will  say,  to  be  banished 
or  cast  into  prison:    nay,  what  if  it  were  to  be  burnt,  or  any 
other  way  destroyed }     We  have  examples  in  all  ages,  and  in  all 
cases,  of  great  men  that  have  triumphed  over  all  misfortunes. 
—  Metellus     suffered     exile     resolutely,    Rutilius     cheerfully; 
Socrates  disputed  in  the  dungeon;   and  though  he  might  have 
made  his  escape,  refused  it;    to  show  the  world  how  easy  a 
thing  it  was  to  subdue  the  two  great  terrors  of  mankind,  death 
and  a  jail.     Or  what  shall  we  say  of  Mucius  Scevola,  a  man 
only  of  a  military  courage,   and  without  the  help  either  of 
philosophy  or  letters?   who,  when  he  found  that  he  had  killed 
the  Secretary  instead  of  Porsenna,  (the  prince,)  burnt  his  right 
hand  to  ashes  for  the  mistake;    and  held  his  arm  in  the  flame 
until  it  was  taken  away  by  his  very  enemies.     Porsenna  did 
more  easily  pardon  Mucius  for  his  intent  to  kill  him  than 
Mucius   forgave   himself  for  missing   of  his   aim.      He   might 
have  a  luckier  thing,  but  never  a  braver. 

Did  not  Cato,  in  the  last  night  of  his  life,  take  Plato  to  bed 
with   him,  with   his   sword   at  his   bed's  head;  , 

the  one  that  he  might  have  death  at  his  ^° ^  '^°^^ ^^'^^ 
will,  the  other,  that  he  might  have  it  in  his  power;  being  re- 
solved that  no  man  should  be  able  to  say,  either  that  he  kill- 
ed or  that  he  saved  Cato,?  So  soon  as  he  had  composed  his 
thoughts  he  took  his  sword;  "Fortune,"  says  he,  "I  have 
hitherto  fought  for  my  country's  liberty,  and  for  my  own,  and 
only  that  I  might  live  free  among  freemen;  but  the  cause  is  now 
lost,  and  Cato  safe."  With  that  word  he  cast  himself  upon  his 
sword;  and  after  the  physicians  that  pressed  in  upon  him  had 
bound  up  his  wound,  he  tore  it  up  again,  and  expired  with  the 
same  greatness  of  soul  that  he  lived.  But  these  are  the  ex- 
amples, you  will  say,  of  men  famous  in  their  generations. 
Let  us  but  consult  history,  and  we  shall  find,  even  in  the  most 


i68  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

eflFeminate  of  nations,  and  the  most  dissolute  of  times,  men 
of  all  degrees,  ages,  and  fortunes,  nay,  even  women  them- 
selves, that  have  overcome  the  fear  of  death:  which,  in  truth, 
is  so  little  to  be  feared,  that  duly  considered,  it  is  one  of  the 
greatest  benefits  of  nature.  It  was  as  great  an  honour  for 
Cato,  when  his  party  was  broken,  that  he  himself  stood  his 
ground,  as  it  would  have  been  if  he  had  carried  the  day,  and 
settled  an  universal  peace:  For,  it  is  an  equal  prudence,  to 
make  the  best  of  a  bad  game,  and  to  manage  a  good  one. 
The  day  that  he  was  repulsed,  he  played,  and  the  night  that  he 
killed  himself,  he  read,  as  valuing  the  loss  of  his  life,  and  the 
missing  of  an  office  at  the  same  rate.  People,  I  know,  are 
apt  to  pronounce  upon  other  men's  infirmities  by  the  measure 
of  their  own,  and  to  think  it  impossible  that  a  man  should  be 
content  to  be  burnt,  wounded,  killed,  or  shackled,  though 
in  some  cases  he  may.  It  is  only  for  a  great  mind  to  judge 
of  great  things;  for  otherwise,  that  which  is  our  infirmity 
will  seem  to  be  another  body's,  as  a  straight  stick  in  the  water 
appears  to  be  crooked:  he  that  yields,  draws  upon  his  own 
head  his  own  ruin;  for  we  are  sure  to  get  the  better  of  For- 
tune, if  we  do  but  struggle  with  her.  Fencers  and  wrestlers, 
we  see  what  blows  and  bruises  they  endure,  not  only  for 
honour,  but  for  exercise.  If  we  turn  our  backs  once,  we  are 
routed  and  pursued;  that  man  only  is  happy  that  draws  good 
out  of  evil,  that  stands  fast  in  his  judgment,  and  unmoved 
with  any  external  violence;  or  however,  so  little  moved,  that 
the  keenest  arrow  in  the  quiver  of  Fortune  is  but  as  the  prick 
of  a  needle  to  him  rather  than  a  wound;  and  all  her  other 
weapons  fall  upon  him  only  as  hail  upon  the  roof  of  a  house, 
that  crackles  and  skips  off  again,  without  any  damage  to  the 
inhabitant. 

A  generous  and  clear-sighted  young  man  will  take  it  for  a 
happiness  to  encounter  ill  Fortune.     It  is  no- 
The  greatest  thing  for  a  man  to  hold  up  his  head  in  a  calm; 

evilmadversi-  ^^^  ^^  maintain  his  post  when  all  others  have 
ty  IS  the  sub-  .        ,      ,     .  111  i 

mitting  to  it  quitted  their  ground,  and  there  to  stand  up- 

right where  other  men  are  beaten  down,  this 
is  divine  and  praise-worthy.  What  ill  is  there  in  torments,  or 
in  those  things  which  we  commonly  account  grievous  crosses? 
The  great  evil  is  the  want  of  courage,  the  bowing  and  sub- 
mitting to  them,  which  can  never  happen  to  a  wise  man;  for 
he  stands  upright  under  any  weight;  nothing  that  is  to  be 
borne  displeases  him;    he  knows  his  strength,  and  whatsoever 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  169 

may  be  any  man's  lot,  he  never  complains  of,  if  it  be  his  own. 
Nature,  he  says,  deceives  nobody;  she  does  not  tell  us 
whether  our  children  shall  be  fair  or  foul,  wise  or  foolish, 
good  subjects  or  traitors,  nor  whether  our  fortune  shall  be 
good  or  bad.  We  must  not  judge  of  a  man  by  his  ornaments, 
but  strip  him  of  all  the  advantages  and  the  impostures  of 
Fortune,  nay,  of  his  very  body  too,  and  look  into  his  mind. 
If  he  can  see  a  naked  sword  at  his  eyes  without  so  much  as 
winking;  if  he  make  it  a  thing  indifferent  to  him  whether  his 
life  go  out  at  his  throat  or  at  his  mouth;  if  he  can  hear  himself 
sentenced  to  torments  or  exiles,  and  under  the  very  hand  of 
the  executioner,  says  thus  to  himself,  "All  this  I  am  provided 
for,  and  it  is  no  more  than  a  man  that  is  to  suffer  the  fate  of 
humanity."  This  is  the  temper  of  mind  that  speaks  a  man 
happy;  and  without  this,  all  the  confluences  of  external 
comforts  signify  no  more  than  the  personating  of  a  king  upon 
the  stage;  when  the  curtain  is  drawn,  we  are  players  again. 
Not  that  I  pretend  to  exempt  a  wise  man  out  of  the  number 
of  men,  as  if  he  had  no  sense  of  pain;  but  I  reckon  him  as 
compounded  of  body  and  soul:  the  body  is  irrational,  and 
may  be  galled,  burnt,  tortured;  but  the  rational  part  is  fear- 
less, invincible,  and  not  to  be  shaken.  This  is  it  that  I 
reckon  upon  as  the  supreme  good  of  man;  which,  until  it  be 
perfected,  is  but  an  unsteady  agitation  of  thought,  and  in  the 
perfection  an  immoveable  stability.  It  is  not  in  our  contentions 
with  Fortune  as  in  those  of  the  theatre,  where  we  may  throw 
down  our  arms,  and  pray  for  quarter;  but  here  we  must  die 
firm  and  resolute.  There  needs  no  encouragement  to  those 
things  which  we  are  inclined  to  by  a  natural  instinct,  as  the 
preservation  of  ourselves  with  ease  and  pleasure;  but  if  it 
comes  to  the  trial  of  our  faith  by  torments,  or  of  our  courage 
by  wounds,  these  are  difficulties  that  we  must  be  armed 
against  by  philosophy  and  precept:  and  yet  all  this  is  no  more 
than  what  we  were  born  to,  and  no  matter  of  wonder  at  all; 
so  that  a  wise  man  prepares  himself  for  it,  as  expecting  what- 
soever may  be  will  be.  My  body  is  frail,  and  liable  not  only 
to  the  impressions  of  violence,  but  to  afflictions  also,  that  na- 
turally succeed  our  pleasures.  Full  meals  bring  crudities; 
whoring  and  drinking,  make  the  hands  to  shake  and  the 
knees  to  tremble.  It  is  only  the  surprise  and  newness  of  the 
thing  which  makes  that  misfortune  terrible,  which,  by  pre- 
meditation, might  be  made  easy  to  us:  for  that  which  some 
people    make    light    by    sufferance,    others    do    by    foresight. 


170  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

Whatsoever  is  necessary,  we  must  bear  patiently.  It  is  no 
new  thing  to  die,  no  new  thing  to  mourn,  and  no  new  thing 
to  be  merry  again.  Must  I  be  poor?  I  shall  have  company: 
in  banishment?  I  will  think  myself  born  there.  If  I  die,  I 
shall  be  no  more  sick;  and  it  is  a  thing  I  cannot  do  but  once. 
Let  us  never  wonder  at  any  thing  we  are  born  to;  for  no 
man  has  reason  to  complain,  where  we  are 
Let  no  man  he  ^11  in  the  same  condition.  He  that  escapes 
surprised  with  ^^j  j^^  j^^^^  suffered;  and  it  is  but  equal  to 
what  be  ts  born  ,       .  i        i  r  t  ttt 

^Q  submit   to    the    law    ot   mortality.      We    must 

undergo  the  colds  of  winter,  the  heats  of 
summer;  the  distempers  of  the  air,  and  the  diseases  of  the 
body.  A  wild  beast  meets  us  in  one  place,  and  a  man  that  is 
more  brutal  in  another;  we  are  here  assaulted  by  fire,  there 
by  water.  Demetrius  was  reserved  by  Providence  for  the  age 
he  lived  in,  to  show,  that  neither  the  times  could  corrupt 
him,  nor  he  reform  the  people.  He  was  a  man  of  an  exact 
judgment,  steady  to  his  purpose,  and  of  a  strong  eloquence; 
not  finical  in  his  words,  but  his  sense  was  masculine  and  ve- 
hement. He  was  so  qualified  in  his  life  and  discourse,  that 
he  served  both  for  an  example  and  a  reproach.  If  Fortune 
should  have  offered  that  man  the  government  and  the  pos- 
session of  the  whole  world,  upon  condition  not  to  lay  it  down 
again,  I  dare  say  he  would  have  refused  it:  and  thus  have 
expostulated  the  matter  with  you;  "Why  should  you  tempt  a 
freeman  to  put  his  shoulder  under  a  burden;  or  an  honest 
man  to  pollute  himself  with  the  dregs  of  mankind  ?  Why  do 
you  offer  me  the  spoils  of  princes,  and  of  nations,  and  the 
price  not  only  of  your  blood,  but  of  your  souls?"  It  is  the 
part  of  a  great  mind  to  be  temperate  in  prosperity,  resolute  in 
adversity;  to  despise  what  the  vulgar  admire,  and  to  prefer  a 
mediocrity  to  an  excess.  Was  not  Socrates  oppressed  with 
poverty,  labour,  nay,  the  worst  of  wars  in  his  own  family, 
a  fierce  and  turbulent  woman  to  his  wife.?  were  not  his  chil- 
dren indocible,  and  like  their  mother?  After  seven  and  twen- 
ty years  spent  in  arms,  he  fell  under  a  slavery  to  the  thirty 
tyrants,  and  most  of  them  his  bitter  enemies:  he  came  at  last 
to  be  sentenced  as  "a  violator  of  religion,  a  corrupter  of 
youth,  and  a  common  enemy  to  God  and  man."  After  this 
he  was  imprisoned,  and  put  to  death  by  poison,  which  was 
all  so  far  from  working  upon  his  mind,  that  it  never  so  much 
as  altered  his  countenance.  We  are  to  bear  ill  accidents  as 
unkind   seasons,  distempers,  or  diseases;    and  why  may  we 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  171 

not  reckon  the  actions  of  wicked  men  even  among  those  ac- 
cidents; their  deliberations  are  not  counsels,  but  frauds, 
snares,  and  inordinate  motions  of  the  mind;  and  they  are 
never  without  a  thousand  pretences  and  occasions  of  doing  a 
man  mischief.  They  have  their  informers,  their  knights  of 
the  post;  they  can  make  an  interest  with  powerful  men,  and 
one  may  be  robbed  as  well  upon  the  bench  as  upon  the  high- 
way. They  lie  in  wait  for  advantages,  and  live  in  perpetual 
agitation  betwixt  hope  and  fear;  whereas  he  that  is  truly  com- 
posed will  stand  all  shocks,  either  of  violences,  flatteries,  or 
menaces,  without  purturbation.  It  is  an  inward  fear  that 
makes  us  curious  after  what  we  hear  abroad. 

It  is  an  error  to  attribute  either  good  or  ill  to  Fortune;    but 
the  matter  of  it  we  may;    and  we   ourselves 

are    the    occasion    of   it,    being    in    effect    the    ^^"^  works  of 

.•  r  c  1  •  •  Fortune  are  nei- 

artihcers    or    our    own    happmess  or    misery;     ,  , 

•  tbCT  ZOOd  710T 

for  the  mind  is  above  fortune;  if  that  be  ^^^7 
evil,  it  makes  every  thing  else  so  too;  but 
if  it  be  right  and  sincere,  it  corrects  what  is  wrong,  and  mol- 
lifies what  is  hard,  with  modesty  and  courage.  There  is  a 
great  difference  among  those  that  the  world  calls  wise  men. 
Some  take  up  private  resolutions  of  opposing  Fortune,  but 
they  cannot  go  through  with  them;  for  they  are  either  daz- 
zled with  splendour  on  the  one  hand,  or  affrighted  with  ter- 
rors on  the  other:  but  there  are  others  that  will  close  and 
grapple  with  Fortune,  and  still  come  off  victorious.  Mucins 
overcame  the  fire;  Regulus  the  gibbet;  Socrates,  poison; 
Rutilius,  banishment;  Cato,  death;  Fabricius,  riches;  Tu- 
bero,  poverty;  and  Sextius,  honours.  But  there  are  some 
again  so  delicate,  that  they  cannot  so  much  as  bear  a  scandal- 
ous report;  which  is  the  same  thing  as  if  a  man  should  quar- 
rel for  being  justled  in  a  crowd,  or  dashed  as  he  walks  in  the 
streets.  He  that  has  a  great  way  to  go  must  expect  a  slip,  to 
stumble,  and  to  be  tired.  To  the  luxurious  man  frugality  is  a 
punishment;  labour  and  industry  to  the  sluggard;  nay,  study 
itself  is  a  torment  to  him:  not  that  these  things  are  hard  to  us 
by  nature,  but  we  ourselves  are  vain  and  irresolute:  nay, 
we  wonder  many  of  us,  how  any  man  can  live  without  wine, 
or  endure  to  rise  so  early  in  a  morning. 

A  brave  man  must  expect  to  be  tossed;     for  he  is  to  steer 
his   course   in    the    teeth    of   Fortune,    and    to 

work    against    wind     and    weather.      In    the    ^^>'"^  ^-^  f(°"o«^ 

rr    •  r  111  ^^  extremities 

sutrenng     of     torments,     though     there     ap- 


172  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

pears  but  one  virtue,  a  man  exercises  many.  That  which  is 
most  eminent  is  patience,  (which  is  but  a  branch  of  forti- 
tude.) But  there  is  prudence  also  in  the  choice  of  the  action, 
and  in  the  bearing  what  we  cannot  avoid;  and  there  is  con- 
stancy in  bearing  it  resolutely:  and  there  is  the  same  concur- 
rence also  of  several  virtues  in  other  generous  undertakings. 
When  Leonidas  was  to  carry  his  300  men  into  the  Straits  of 
Thermopylae,  to  put  a  stop  to  Xerxes's  huge  army:  "Come, 
fellow-soldiers,"  says  he,  "eat  your  dinners  here  as  if  you 
were  to  sup  in  another  world."  And  they  answered  his  reso- 
lution. How  plain  and  imperious  was  that  short  speech  of 
Caeditius  to  his  men  upon  a  desperate  action?  and  how  glo- 
rious a  mixture  was  there  in  it  both  of  bravery  and  prudence? 
"Soldiers,"  says  he,  "it  is  necessary  for  us  to  go,  but  it  is 
not  necessary  for  us  to  return."  This  brief  and  pertinent 
harangue  was  worth  ten  thousand  of  the  frivolous  cavils  and 
distinctions  of  the  schools,  which  rather  break  the  mind  than 
fortify  it;  and  when  it  is  once  perplexed  and  pricked  with 
difficulties  and  scruples,  there  they  leave  it.  Our  passions  are 
numerous  and  strong,  and  not  to  be  mastered  with  quirks  and 
tricks,  as  if  a  man  should  undertake  to  defend  the  cause  of 
God  and  man  with  a  bulrush.  It  was  a  remarkable  piece  of 
honour  and  policy  together,  that  action  of  Caesar's,  upon  the 
taking  of  Pompey's  cabinet  at  the  battle  of  Pharsalia:  it  is 
probable  that  the  letters  in  it  might  have  discovered  who  were 
his  friends,  and  who  his  enemies;  and  yet  he  burnt  it  without 
so  much  as  opening  it:  esteeming  it  the  noblest  way  of  par- 
doning, to  keep  himself  ignorant  both  of  the  offender  and  of 
the  offence.  It  was  a  brave  presence  of  mind  also  in  Alex- 
ander, who,  upon  advice  that  his  physician  Philip  intended  to 
poison  him,  took  the  letter  of  advice  in  one  hand,  and  the 
cup  in  the  other;  delivering  Philip  the  letter  to  read  while  he 
himself  drank  the  potion. 

Some  are  of  opinion,  that  death  gives  a  man  courage  to 
support   pain,    and   that   pain   fortifies   a   man 
Virtue y  against    death:     but    I    say    rather,    that    a 

wise  man  depends  upon  himself  agamst 
both,  and  that  he  does  not  either  suffer  with  patience,  in 
hopes  of  death,  or  die  willingly,  because  he  is  weary  of  life; 
but  he  bears  the  one,  and  waits  for  the  other,  and  carries  a 
divine  mind  through  all  the  accidents  of  human  life.  He 
looks  upon  faith  and  honesty  as  the  most  sacred  good  of  man- 
kind, and  neither  to  be  forced  by  necessity  nor  corrupted  by 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  173 

reward;  kill,  burn,  tear  him  in  pieces,  he  will  be  true  to  his 
trust:  and  the  more  any  man  labours  to  make  him  discover  a 
secret,  the  deeper  will  he  hide  it.  Resolution  is  the  inex- 
pugnable defence  of  human  weakness,  and  it  is  a  wonderful 
Providence  that  attends  it,  Horatius  Codes  opposed  his  sin- 
gle body  to  the  whole  army,  until  the  bridge  was  cut  down 
behind  him,  and  then  leaped  into  the  river  with  his  sword  in 
his  hand,  and  came  off  safe  to  his  party.  There  was  a  fellow 
questioned  about  a  plot  upon  the  life  of  a  tyrant,  and  put  to 
the  torture  to  declare  his  confederates:  he  named,  by  one 
and  one,  all  the  tyrant's  friends  that  were  about  him:  and 
still  as  they  were  named,  they  were  put  to  death:  the  tyrant 
asked  him  at  last  if  there  were  any  more.  Yes,  says  he, 
yourself  were  in  the  plot;  and  now  you  have  never  another 
friend  left  you  in  the  world:  whereupon  the  tyrant  cut  the 
throats  of  his  own  guards.  "He  is  the  happy  man  that  is  the 
master  of  himself,  and  triumphs  over  the  fear  of  death,  which 
has  overcome  the  conquerors  of  the  world." 


CHAP.  XVII 

Our  happiness  depends  in  a  great  measure  upon  the 
choice  of  our  company 

The  comfort  of  life  depends  upon  conversation.  Good 
offices,  and  concord,  and  human  society,  is  like  the  working 
of  an  arch  of  stone;  all  would  fall  to  the  ground  if  one  piece 
did  not  support  another.  Above  all  things  let  us  have  a  ten- 
derness for  blood;  and  it  is  yet  too  little  not  to  hurt,  unless 
we  profit  one  another.  We  are  to  relieve  the  distressed;  to 
put  the  wanderer  into  his  way;  and  to  divide  our  bread  with 
the  hungry:  which  is  but  the  doing  of  good  to  ourselves; 
for  we  are  only  several  members  of  one  great  body.  Nay, 
we  are  all  of  a  consanguinity;  formed  of  the  same  materials, 
and  designed  to  the  same  end;  this  obliges  us  to  a  mutual 
tenderness  and  converse;  and  the  other,  to  live  with  a  re- 
gard to  equity  and  justice.  The  love  of  society  is  natural; 
but  the  choice  of  our  company  is  matter  of  virtue  and  pru- 
dence. Noble  examples  stir  us  up  to  noble  actions;  and  the 
very  history  of  large  and  public  souls,  inspires  a  man  with 
generous  thoughts.     It  makes  a  man  long  to  be  in  action,  and 


174  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

doing  something  that  the  world  may  be  the  better  for;  as 
protecting  the  weak,  dehvering  the  oppressed,  punishing  the 
insolent.  It  is  a  great  blessing,  the  very  conscience  of  giving 
a  good  example;  beside,  that  it  is  the  greatest  obligation  any 
man  can  lay  upon  the  age  he  lives  in.  He  that  converses 
with  the  proud  shall  be  puffed  up,  a  lustful  acquaintance 
makes  a  man  lascivious;  and  the  way  to  secure  a  man  from 
wickedness  is  to  withdraw  from  the  examples  of  it.  It  is  too 
much  to  have  them  near  us,  but  more  to  have  them  within 
us;  ill  examples,  pleasure,  and  ease,  are,  no  doubt  of  it, 
great  corrupters  of  manners.  A  rocky  ground  hardens  the 
horse's  hoof;  the  mountaineer  makes  the  best  soldier,  the 
miner  makes  the  best  pioneer,  and  severity  of  discipline  for- 
tifies the  mind.  In  all  excesses  and  extremities  of  good  and 
of  ill  fortune,  let  us  have  recourse  to  great  examples  that 
have  contemned  both.  "These  are  the  best  instructors  that 
teach  in  their  lives,  and  prove  their  words  by  their  actions." 
As  an  ill  air  may  endanger  a  good  constitution,  so  may  a 
place  of  ill  example  endanger  a  good  man. 
Avoid  even  dis-  Nay,  there  are  some  places  that  have  a 
solute  places  as  j^j^^  ^f  privilege  to  be  licentious,  and 
well  as  loose  ,  ,       ^  i       i  •       i      •  r 

companions  where     luxury     and     dissolution     oi     manners 

seem  to  be  lawful;  for  great  examples  give 
both  authority  and  excuse  to  wickedness.  Those  places  are 
to  be  avoided  as  dangerous  to  our  manners.  Hannibal  himself 
was  unmanned  by  the  looseness  of  Campania;  and  though  a 
conqueror  by  his  arms,  he  was  overcome  by  his  pleasures. 
I  would  as  soon  live  among  butchers  as  among  cooks;  not 
but  a  man  may  be  temperate  in  any  place,  but  to  see  drunken 
men  staggering  up  and  down  every  where,  and  only  the 
spectacles  of  lust,  luxury,  and  excess,  before  our  eyes,  it  is 
not  safe  to  expose  ourselves  to  the  temptation.  If  the  victo- 
rious Hannibal  himself  could  not  resist  it,  what  shall  become 
of  us  then  that  are  subdued,  and  give  ground  to  our  lusts  al- 
ready? He  that  has  to  do  with  an  enemy  in  his  breast,  has  a 
harder  task  upon  him  than  he  that  is  to  encounter  one  in  the 
field:  his  hazard  is  greater  if  he  loses  ground,  and  his  duty  is 
perpetual;  for  he  has  no  place  or  time  for  rest.  If  I  give  way 
to  pleasure,  I  must  also  yield  to  grief,  to  poverty,  to  labour,  am- 
bition, anger,  until  I  am  torn  to  pieces  by  my  misfortunes  and 
lusts.  But  against  all  this,  philosophy  propounds  a  liberty, 
that  is  to  say,  a  liberty  from  the  service  of  accidents  and  for- 
tune.    There  is  not  any  thing  that  does  more  mischief  to  man- 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  175 

kind  than  mercenary  masters  and  philosophy,  that  do  not 
live  as  they  teach;  they  give  a  scandal  to  virtue.  How  can 
any  man  expect  that  a  ship  should  steer  a  fortunate  course 
when  the  pilot  lies  wallowing  in  his  own  vomit?  It  is  an 
usual  thing,  first  to  learn  to  do  ill  ourselves,  and  then  to  in- 
struct others  to  do  so:  but  that  man  must  needs  be  very 
wicked  that  has  gathered  into  himself  the  wickedness  of  other 
people. 

The  best  conversation  is  with  the  philosophers;    that  is  to 
say,   with   such   of  them   as   teach    us   matter, 
not  words:     that    preach   to   us   things   neces-    P^^'^t'K:^^  philo- 
j    1  ^       ^u  ^-  c    ^^^  sophers  an  the 

sary,    and  keep   us    to    the    practice    of   them.    ^  J;  ^o^^^^^ 

There  can  be  no  peace  in  human  life  with- 
out the  contempt  of  all  events.  There  is  nothing  that  either 
puts  better  thoughts  into  a  man,  or  sooner  sets  him  right  that 
is  out  of  the  way,  than  a  good  companion:  for  the  example 
has  the  force  of  a  precept,  and  touches  the  heart  with  an  af- 
fection to  goodness.  And  not  only  the  frequent  hearing  and 
seeing  of  a  wise  man  delights  us,  but  the  very  encounter  of 
him  suggests  profitable  contemplation;  such  as  a  man  finds  him- 
self moved  with  when  he  goes  into  a  holy  place.  I  will  take 
more  care  with  whom  I  eat  and  drink  than  what;  for  without 
a  friend,  the  table  is  a  manger.  Writing  does  well,  but  per- 
sonal discourse  and  conversation  does  better:  for  men  give 
great  credit  to  their  ears,  and  take  stronger  impressions 
from  example  than  precept.  Cleanthes  had  never  hit  Zeno 
so  to  the  life,  if  he  had  not  been  in  with  him  at  all  his  pri- 
vacies: if  he  had  not  watched  and  observed  him  whether  or 
not  he  practised  as  he  taught.  —  Plato  got  more  from  Socrates' 
manners  than  from  his  words;  and  it  was  not  the  school,  but  the 
company  and  familiarity  of  Epicurus,  that  made  Metrodorus, 
Hermachus,  and  Polyaenus  so  famous. 

Now,  though  it  be  by  instinct  that  we  covet  society,  and 
avoid   solitude,  we  should  yet  take  this  along 
with     us,    that    the    more     acquaintance    the    ^  "^  '^°^^  '^°^' 
more  danger.     Nay,  there  is  not  one  man  of    j^^J^    ^  ^°^' 
an  hundred  that  is  to  be  trusted  with  himself. 
If  company  cannot  alter  us,  it  may  interrupt  us;    and  he  that 
so  much  as  stops  upon  the  way  loses  a  great  deal  of  a  short 
life,  which  we  yet  make  shorter  by  our  inconstancy.     If  an 
enemy  were  at  our  heels,  what  haste  should  we  make?    but 
death  is  so,  and  yet  we  never  mind  it.     There  is  no  venturing 
of  tender  and  easy  natures  among  the  people,  for  it  is  odds 


176  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

that  they  will  go  over  to  the  major  party.     It  would  perhaps, 
shake  the  constancy  of  Socrates,  Cato,  Laelius,  or  any  of  us 
all,  even  when  our  resolutions  are  at  the  height,  to  stand  the 
shock  of  vice  that  presses  upon  us  with  a  kind  of  public  au- 
thority.    It  is  a  world  of  mischief  that  may  be  done  by  one 
single  example  of  avarice  or  luxury.     One  voluptuous  palate 
makes   a  great  many.     A  wealthy  neighbour  stirs  up   envy, 
and  a  fleering  companion  moves  ill-nature  wherever  he  comes. 
What  will   become  of  those  people  then  that  expose  them- 
selves to  a  popular  violence?    which  is  ill  both  ways;    either 
if  they  comply  with  the  wicked,  because  they  are  many,  or 
quarrel  with  the  multitude  because  they  are  not  principled 
alike.     The  best  way  is  to  retire,  and   associate  only  with 
those  that  may  be  the  better  for  us,  and  we  for  them.     These 
respects  are  mutual;    for  while  we  teach,  we  learn.     To  deal 
freely,  I  dare  not  trust  myself  in  the  hands  of  much  com- 
pany:   I  never  go  abroad  that  I  come  home  again  the  same 
man  I  went  out.     Something  or  other  that  I  had  put  in  order 
is  discomposed;    some  passion  that  I  had  subdued  gets  head 
again;   and  it  is  just  with  our  minds  as  it  is  after  a  long  indis- 
position with  our  bodies;    we  are  grown  so  tender,  that  the 
least  breath  of  air  exposes  us  to  a  relapse.     And  it  is  no  won- 
der if  a  numerous  conversation  be  dangerous,  where  there  is 
scarce  any  single  man  but  by  his  discourse,  example,  or  be- 
haviour, does  either  recommend  to  us,  or  imprint  in  us,  or, 
by  a  kind  of  contagion,  insensibly  infect  us  with  one  vice  or 
other;    and  the  more  people  the  greater  is  the  peril.     Espe- 
cially let  us  have  a  care  of  public  spectacles  where  wickedness 
insinuates  itself  with  pleasure;    and,  above  all  others,  let  us 
avoid  spectacles  of  cruelty  and  blood;    and  have  nothing  to 
do  with  those  that  are  perpetually  whining  and  complaining; 
there  may  be  faith  and  kindness  there,  but  no  peace.     People 
that  are  either  sad  or  fearful,  we  do  commonly,  for  their  own 
sakes,  set  a  guard  upon  them,  for  fear  they  should  make  an 
ill   use   of  being    alone;     especially   the   imprudent,   who   are 
still  contriving  of  mischief,    either    for    others    or    for   them- 
selves, in  cherishing  their  lusts,  or  forming  their  designs.     So 
much  for  the  choice  of  a  companion,  we  shall  now  proceed  to 
that  of  a  friend. 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  177 

CHAP.   XVIII 

The  blessings  of  friendship 

Of  all  felicities,  the  most  charming  is  that  of  a  firm  and 
gentle  friendship.  It  sweetens  all  our  cares,  dispels  our  sor- 
rows, and  counsels  us  in  all  extremities.  Nay,  if  there  were 
no  other  comfort  in  it  than  the  bare  exercise  of  so  generous  a 
virtue,  even  for  that  single  reason,  a  man  would  not  be  without 
it.  Beside,  that  it  is  a  sovereign  antidote  against  all  calami- 
ties, even  against  the  fear  of  death  itself. 

But  we  are  not  yet  to  number  our  friends  by  the  visits  that 
are    made    us;     and    to    confound    the    decen- 
cies     of     cermony     and     commerce     with     the    ^'^^^^  ^'^^  Y , 

rr  r  •,    j        jx     ,•  r^   ■  r^  'not  a  friend  that 

omces    or     umted    affections.     L-ams    Graccus,    ^^,  /^,,  ^    ■  •, 

.  -^  makes  us  a  visit 

and  after  him  Livms  Drusus,  were  the  men 
that  introduced  among  the  Romans  the  fashion  of  separating 
their  visitants:  some  were  taken  into  their  closet,  others  were 
only  admitted  into  the  antichamber:  and  some,  again,  were 
fain  to  wait  in  the  hall  perhaps,  or  in  the  court.  So  that  they 
had  their  first,  their  second,  and  their  third  rate  friends;  but 
none  of  them  true:  only  they  are  called  so  in  course,  as  we 
salute  strangers  with  some  title  or  other  of  respect  at  a  ven- 
ture. There  is  no  depending  upon  those  men  that  only  take 
their  compliment  in  their  turn,  and  rather  slip  through  the 
door  than  enter  at  it.  He  will  find  himself  in  a  great  mis- 
take, that  either  seeks  for  a  friend  in  a  palace,  or  tries  him  at 
a  feast. 

The  great  difficulty  rests  in  the  choice  of  him:    that   is   to 
say,  in  the  first  place,  let  him  be  virtuous,  for  vice 
is  contagious,  and  there  is  no  trusting  of  the  sound      ,    {-^"d 
and  the  sick  together;  and  he  ought  to  be  a  wise 
man  too,  if  a  body  knew  where  to  find  him;    but  in  this  case, 
he  that  is  least  ill  is  best,  and  the  highest  degree  of  human 
prudence  is  only  the  most  venial  folly.     That  friendship  where 
men's  affections  are  cemented  by  an  equal  and  by  a  common 
love  of  goodness,  it  is  not  either  hope  or  fear,  or  any  private 
interest,  that  can  ever  dissolve  it;   but  we  carry  it  with  us  to 
our  graves,   and  lay  down  our  lives  for  it  with  satisfaction. 
Paulina's  good   and  mine  (says  our  author)  were  so  wrapped 
up  together,  that  in  consulting  her  comfort  I  provided  for  my 
own;    and  when  I  could  not  prevail  upon  her  to  take  less 


1 78  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

care  for  me,  she  prevailed  upon  me  to  take  more  care  for 
myself.  Some  people  make  it  a  question,  whether  is  the 
greatest  delight,  the  enjoying  of  an  old  friendship,  or  the  ac- 
quiring of  a  new  one?  but  it  is  in  the  preparing  of  a  friend- 
ship, and  in  the  possession  of  it,  as  it  is  with  the  husbandman 
is  sowing  and  reaping;  his  delight  is  the  hope  of  his  labour 
in  the  one  case,  and  the  fruit  of  it  in  the  other.  My  conver- 
sation lies  among  my  books,  but  yet  in  the  letters  of  a  friend, 
methinks  I  have  his  company;  and  when  I  answer  them,  I  do 
not  only  write,  but  speak:  and,  in  effect,  a  friend  is  an  eye,  a 
heart,  a  tongue,  a  hand,  at  all  distances.  When  friends  see 
one  another  personally,  they  do  not  see  one  another  as  they 
do  when  they  are  divided,  where  the  meditation  dignifies  the 
prospect;  but  they  are  effectually  in  a  great  measure  absent 
even  when  they  are  present.  Consider  their  nights  apart, 
their  private  studies,  their  separate  employments,  and  neces- 
sary visits;  and  they  are  almost  as  much  together  divided  as 
present.  True  friends  are  the  whole  world  to  one  another; 
and  he  that  is  a  friend  to  himself  is  also  a  friend  to  mankind. 
Even  in  my  very  studies,  the  greatest  delight  I  take  in  what  I 
learn  is  the  teaching  of  it  to  others;  for  there  is  no  relish, 
methinks,  in  the  possession  of  any  thing  without  a  partner; 
nay,  if  wisdom  itself  were  offered  me  upon  condition  only  of 
keeping  it  to  myself,  I  should  undoubtedly  refuse  it. 

Lucilius  tells  me,  that  he  was  written  to  by  a  friend,  but  cau- 
tions me  withal  not  to  say  any  thing  to  him 
There  must  be        ^f    ^^^    affair    in    question;     for    he    himself 

r  •    ir-^  stands   upon    the    same   guard.     What   is    this 

Jnendsbip  Jl  111  i  •         • 

but  to  athrm  and  to  deny  the  same  thmg  m 

the  same  breath,  in  calling  a  man  a  friend,  whom  we  dare  not 
trust  as  our  own  soul  ?  For  there  must  be  no  reserves  in  friend- 
ship: as  much  deliberation  as  you  please  before  the  league 
is  struck,  but  no  doubtings  or  jealousies  after.  It  is  a  prepos- 
terous weakness  to  love  a  man  before  we  know  him,  and  not 
to  care  for  him  after.  It  requires  time  to  consider  of  a  friend- 
ship, but  the  resolution  once  taken,  entitles  him  to  my  very 
heart:  I  look  upon  my  thoughts  to  be  as  safe  in  his  breast  as 
in  my  own;  I  shall,  without  any  scruple,  make  him  the  con- 
fident of  my  most  secret  cares  and  counsels.  It  goes  a  great 
way  toward  the  making  of  a  man  faithful,  to  let  him  under- 
stand that  you  think  him  so;  and  he  that  does  but  so  much  as 
suspect  that  I  will  deceive  him  gives  me  a  kind  of  right  to 
cozen  him.     When  I  am  with  my  friend,  methinks  I  am  alone, 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  179 

and  as  much  at  liberty  to  speak  any  thing  as  to  think  it:  and 
as  our  hearts  are  one,  so  must  be  our  interest  and  conve- 
nience; for  friendship  lays  all  things  in  common,  and  nothing 
can  be  good  to  the  one  that  is  ill  to  the  other.  I  do  not  speak 
of  such  a  community  as  to  destroy  one  another's  propriety; 
but  as  the  father  and  the  mother  have  two  children,  not  one 
apiece,  but  each  of  them  two. 

But  let  us  have  a  care,  above  all  things,  that  our  kindness 
be  rightfully  founded;    for  where  there  is  any 
other  invitation  to  friendship  than  the  friendship    ,   generous 

...  JTtCTlCiSut'b 

itself,  that  friendship  will  be  bought  and  sold. 
He  derogates  from  the  majesty  of  it  that  makes  it  only  de- 
pendent upon  good  fortune.  It  is  a  narrow  consideration  for 
a  man  to  please  himself  in  the  thought  of  a  friend,  "because," 
says  he,  "I  shall  have  one  to  help  me  when  I  am  sick,  in  pri- 
son, or  in  want."  A  brave  man  should  rather  take  delight  in 
the  contemplation  of  doing  the  same  offices  for  another.  He 
that  loves  a  man  for  his  own  sake  is  in  an  error.  A  friend- 
ship of  interest  cannot  last  any  longer  than  the  interest  itself; 
and  this  is  the  reason  that  men  in  prosperity  are  so  much  fol- 
lowed, and  when  a  man  goes  down  the  wind,  nobody  comes 
near  him.  Temporary  friends  will  never  stand  the  test.  One 
man  is  forsaken  for  fear  of  profit,  another  is  betrayed.  It  is 
a  negotiation,  not  a  friendship,  that  has  an  eye  to  advantages; 
only,  through  the  corruption  of  times,  that  which  was  for- 
merly a  friendship  is  now  become  a  design  upon  a  booty: 
alter  your  testament,  and  you  lose  your  friend.  But  my  end 
of  friendship  is  to  have  one  dearer  to  me  than  myself,  and 
for  the  saving  of  whose  life  I  would  cheerfully  lay  down  my 
own;  taking  this  along  with  me,  that  only  wise  men  can  be 
friends,  others  are  but  companions;  and  that  there  is  a  great 
difference  also  betwixt  love  and  friendship;  the  one  may 
sometime  do  us  hurt,  the  other  always  does  us  good,  for  the 
one  friend  is  hopeful  to  another  in  all  cases,  as  well  in  pros- 
perity as  in  affliction.  We  receive  comfort,  even  at  a  dis- 
tance, from  those  we  love,  but  then  it  is  light  and  faint; 
whereas,  presence  and  conversation  touches  us  to  the  quick, 
especially  if  we  find  the  man  we  love  to  be  such  a  person  as 
we  wish. 

It  is  usual  with  princes  to  reproach  the  living  by  commend- 
ing the  dead,   and   to   praise  those   people  for 

speaking     truth     from      whom     there     is      no    ,.    ,!°J^„ 
1  J  f     1         •  •         T'l  •       •       friend  is  hardly 

longer    any    danger    of    hearmg    it.     This    is    \^  ^^  repaired 

Augustus's    case:     he    was    forced    to    banish 


i8o  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

his  daughter  Juha  for  her  common  and  prostituted  impudence; 
and  still  upon  fresh  informations,  he  was  often  heard  to  say, 
"If  Agrippa  or  Mecenas  had  been  now  alive,  this  would  never 
have  been."  But  yet  where  the  fault  lay  may  be  a  question; 
for  perchance  it  was  his  own,  that  had  rather  complain  for  the 
want  of  them  than  seek  for  others  as  good.  The  Roman 
losses  by  war  and  by  fire,  Augustus  could  quickly  supply  and 
repair;  but  for  the  loss  of  two  friends  he  lamented  his  whole 
life  after.  Xerxes,  (a  vain  and  a  foolish  prince)  when  he 
made  war  upon  Greece,  one  told  him,  "It  would  never 
come  to  a  battle;"  another,  "That  he  would  find  only 
empty  cities  and  countries,  for  they  would  not  so  much  as 
stand  the  very  fame  of  his  coming;"  others  soothed  him  in  the 
opinion  of  his  prodigious  numbers;  and  they  all  concurred  to 
pufF  him  up  to  his  destruction;  only  Damaratus  advised  him 
not  to  depend  too  much  upon  his  numbers,  for  he  would  ra- 
ther find  them  a  burden  to  him  than  an  advantage;  and  that 
three  hundred  men  in  the  straits  of  the  mountains  would  be 
sufficient  to  give  a  check  to  his  whole  army;  and  that  such 
an  accident  would  undoubtedly  turn  his  vast  numbers  to  his 
confusion.  It  fell  out  afterward  as  he  foretold,  and  he  had 
thanks  for  his  fidelity.  A  miserable  prince,  that  among 
so  many  thousand  subjects,  had  but  one  servant  to  tell 
him  truth! 


CHAP.  XIX 

He  that  would  be  happy  must  take  an  account  of  his 

time 

In  the  distribution  of  human  life,  we  find  that  a  great  part 
of  it  passes  away  in  evil  doing;  a  greater  yet  in  doing  just  no- 
thing at  all:  and  effectually  the  whole  in  doing  things  beside 
our  business.  Some  hours  we  bestow  upon  ceremony  and 
servile  attendances;  some  upon  our  pleasures,  and  the  re- 
mainder runs  at  waste.  What  a  deal  of  time  is  it  that  we 
spend  in  hopes  and  fears,  love  and  revenge,  in  balls,  treats, 
making  of  interests,  suing  for  offices,  soliciting  of  causes, 
and  slavish  flatteries!  The  shortness  of  life,  I  know,  is  the 
common  complaint  both  of  fools  and  philosophers;  as  if  the 
time  we  have  were  not  sufficient  for  our  duties.  But  it  is  with 
our  lives  as  with  our  estates,  a  good  husband  makes  a  little  go 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  i8i 

a  great  way;  whereas,  let  the  revenue  of  a  prince  fall  into  the 
hands  of  a  prodigal,  it  is  gone  in  a  moment.  So  that  the  time 
allotted  us,  if  it  were  well  employed,  were  abundantly  enough 
to  answer  all  the  ends  and  purposes  of  mankind.  But  we 
squander  it  away  in  avarice,  drink,  sleep,  luxury,  ambition, 
fawning  addresses,  envy,  rambling,  voyages,  impertinent  stu- 
dies, change  of  councils,  and  the  like;  and  when  our  portion 
is  spent,  we  find  the  want  of  it,  though  we  gave  no  heed  to  it 
in  the  passage:  insomuch,  that  we  have  rather  made  our  life 
short  than  found  it  so.  You  shall  have  some  people  per- 
petually playing  with  their  fingers,  whistling,  humming,  and 
talking  to  themselves;  and  others  consume  their  days  in  the 
composing,  hearing,  or  reciting  of  songs  and  lampoons.  How 
many  precious  mornings  do  we  spend  in  consultation  with 
barbers,  tailors,  and  tire-women,  patching  and  painting,  be- 
twixt the  comb  and  the  glass  .f"  A  council  must  be  called  upon 
every  hair  we  cut;  and  one  curl  amiss  is  as  much  as  a  body's 
life  is  worth.  The  truth  is,  we  are  more  solicitous  about  our 
dress  than  our  manners,  and  about  the  order  of  our  perriwigs 
than  that  of  the  government.  At  this  rate,  let  us  but  discount, 
out  of  a  life  of  a  hundred  years,  that  time  which  has  been  spent 
upon  popular  negotiations,  frivolous  amours,  domestic  brawls, 
sauntering  up  and  down  to  no  purpose,  diseases  that  we  have 
brought  upon  ourselves,  and  this  large  extent  of  life  will  not 
amount  perhaps  to  the  minority  of  another  man.  It  is  a  long 
being,  but  perchance  a  short  life.  And  what  is  the  reason  of 
all  this?  We  live  as  we  should  never  die,  and  without  any 
thought  of  human  frailty,  when  yet  the  very  moment  we 
bestow  upon  this  man  or  thing,  may,  peradventure,  be  our 
last.  But  the  greatest  loss  of  time  is  delay  and  expectation, 
which  depends  upon  the  future.  We  let  go  the  present,  which 
we  have  in  our  own  power;  we  look  forward  to  that  which 
depends  upon  Fortune;  and  so  quit  a  certainty  for  an  uncer- 
tainty. We  should  do  by  time  as  we  do  by  a  torrent, 
make  use  of  it  while  we  may  have  it,  for  it  will  not  last 
always. 

The  calamities  of  human   nature  may  be  divided   into  the 
fear  of  death,   and   the   miseries   and   errors  of 
life.     And    it    is    the    great   work    of  mankind    No  man  can  be 
to  master  the  one,   and   to   rectify  the  other;     ,v  •    "l"^  °^ 

life   IS   tTKSOTTl^ 

and    so    live,    as    neither    to    make    life    irk-    or  death  terrible 

some    to    us,    nor    death    terrible.     It    should 

be  our  care,  before  we  are  old,  to  live  well,  and  when  we  are 


1 82  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

so,  to  die  well;  that  we  may  expect  our  end  without  sadness: 
for  it  is  the  duty  of  life  to  prepare  ourselves  for  death;  and 
there  is  not  an  hour  we  live  that  does  not  mind  us  of  our 
mortality.  Time  runs  on,  and  all  things  have  their  fate, 
though  it  lies  in  the  dark.  The  period  is  certain  to  nature, 
but  what  am  I  the  better  for  it  if  it  be  not  so  to  me?  We 
propound  travels,  arms,  adventures,  without  ever  considering 
that  death  lies  in  the  way.  Our  term  is  set,  and  none  of  us 
know  how  near  it  is;  but  we  are  all  of  us  agreed,  that  the 
decree  is  unchangeable.  Why  should  we  wonder  to  have 
that  befal  us  to-day  which  might  have  happened  to  us  any 
minute  since  we  were  born?  Let  us  therefore  live  as  if  every 
moment  were  to  be  our  last;  and  set  our  accounts  right 
every  day  that  passes  over  our  heads.  We  are  not  ready  for 
death,  and  therefore  we  fear  it,  because  we  do  not  know 
what  will  become  of  us  when  we  are  gone;  and  that  consi- 
deration strikes  us  with  an  inexplicable  terror.  The  way  to 
avoid  this  distraction  is  to  contract  our  business  and  our 
thoughts:  when  the  mind  is  once  settled,  a  day  or  an  age  is 
all  one  to  us;  and  the  series  of  time,  which  is  now  our  trou- 
ble, will  be  then  our  delight:  for  he  that  is  steadily  resolved 
against  all  uncertainties,  shall  never  be  disturbed  with  the 
variety  of  them.  Let  us  make  haste,  therefore,  to  live,  since 
every  day  to  a  wise  man  is  a  new  life:  for  he  has  done  his 
business  the  day  before,  and  so  prepared  himself  for  the  next, 
that  if  it  be  not  his  last,  he  knows  yet  that  it  might  have  been 
so.  No  man  enjoys  the  true  taste  of  life,  but  he  that  is  will- 
ing and  ready  to  quit  it. 

The  wit  of  man  is  not  able  to  express  the  blindness  of 

human    folly    in    taking    so    much    more    care 

We  take  more        of  q^j-  fortunes,  our  houses,  and  our  money, 

care  of  our  Jot-      xh2.n  we  do  of  our  llves;    every  body  breaks 

itcTics  tud^  ot  .  •'  ^  ^ 

our  lives  ^^   upon   the   one   gratis,   but   we   betake   our- 

selves to  fire  and  sword  if  any  man  invades 
the  other.  There  is  no  dividing  in  the  case  of  patrimony, 
but  people  share  our  time  with  us  at  pleasure:  so  profuse  are 
we  of  that  only  thing  whereof  we  may  be  honestly  cove- 
tous. It  is  a  common  practice  to  ask  an  hour  or  two  of  a 
friend  for  such  or  such  a  business,  and  it  is  as  easily  granted; 
both  parties  only  considering  the  occasion,  and  not  the  thing 
itself.  They  never  put  time  to  account,  which  is  the  most 
valuable  of  all  precious  things:  but  because  they  do  not  see 
it,  they  reckon  upon  it  as  nothing;    and  yet  these  easy  men. 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  183 

when  they  come  to  die,  would  give  the  whole  world  for  those 
hours  again  which  they  so  inconsiderately  cast  away  before; 
but  there  is  no  recovering  of  them.  If  they  could  number 
their  days  that  are  yet  to  come  as  they  can  those  that  are 
already  past,  how  would  those  very  people  tremble  at  the 
apprehension  of  death,  though  a  hundred  years  hence,  that 
never  so  much  as  think  of  it  at  present,  though  they  know 
not  but  it  may  take  them  away  the  next  immediate  minute? 
It  is  an  usual  saying,  "I  would  give  my  life  for  such  or  such 
a  friend,"  when,  at  the  same  time,  we  do  give  it  without  so 
much  as  thinking  of  it:  nay,  when  that  friend  is  never  the 
better  for  it,  and  we  ourselves  the  worse.  Our  time  is  set, 
and  day  and  night  we  travel  on:  there  is  no  baiting  by  the 
way,  and  it  is  not  in  the  power  of  either  prince  or  people  to 
prolong  it.  Such  is  the  love  of  life,  that  even  those  decrepit 
dotards,  that  have  lost  the  use  of  it  will  yet  beg  the  continu- 
ance of  it,  and  make  themselves  younger  than  they  are,  as  if 
they  could  cozen  even  Fate  itself.  When  they  fall  sick, 
what  promises  of  amendment  if  they  escape  that  bout?  what 
exclamations  against  the  folly  of  their  mis-spent  time?  and 
yet  if  they  recover,  they  relapse.  No  man  takes  care  to  live 
well,  but  long;  when  yet  it  is  in  every  body's  power  to  do 
the  former,  and  in  no  man's  to  do  the  latter.  We  consume 
our  lives  in  providing  the  very  instruments  of  life,  and  govern 
ourselves  still  with  a  regard  to  the  future;  so  that  we  do  not 
properly  live,  but  we  are  about  to  live.  How  great  a  shame 
is  it  to  be  laying  new  foundations  of  life  at  our  last  gasp,  and 
for  an  old  man  (that  can  only  prove  his  age  by  his  beard) 
with  one  foot  in  the  grave,  to  go  to  school  again?  While  we 
are  young,  we  may  learn;  our  minds  are  tractable,  and  our 
bodies  fit  for  labour  and  study;  but  when  age  comes  on,  we 
are  seized  with  languor  and  sloth,  afflicted  with  diseases,  and 
at  last  we  leave  the  world  as  ignorant  as  we  came  into 
it:  only  we  die  worse  than  we  were  horn;  which  is  none  of 
Nature's  fault,  but  ours;  for  our  fears,  suspicions,  perfidy, 
&c.  are  from  ourselves.  I  wish  with  all  my  soul  that  I  had 
thought  of  my  end  sooner,  but  I  must  make  the  more 
haste  now,  and  spur  on,  like  those  that  set  out  late  upon  a 
journey;  it  will  be  better  to  learn  late  than  not  at  all,  though 
it  be  but  only  to  instruct  me  how  I  may  leave  the  stage  with 
honour. 

In  the  division  of  life,  there  is  time  present,  past,  and  to 


1 84  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

come.  What  we  do  is  short,  what  we  shall  do 
Time  present,  jg  doubtful,  but  what  we  have  done  is  certain, 
■pas ,  an    o  ^^ ^  ^^^  ^^  ^j^^  power  of  Fortune.     The  pas- 

COTitB 

sage  of  time  is  wonderfully  quick,  and  a  man 
must  look  backward  to  see  it:  and,  in  that  retrospect,  he  has 
all  past  ages  at  a  view:  but  the  present  gives  us  the  slip  un- 
perceived.  It  is  but  a  moment  that  we  live,  and  yet  we  are 
dividing  it  into  childhood,  youth,  man's  estate,  and  old  age,  all 
which  degrees  we  bring  into  that  narrow  compass.  If  we 
do  not  watch,  we  lose  our  opportunities;  if  we  do  not  make 
haste,  we  are  left  behind;  our  best  hours  escape  us,  the  worst 
are  to  come.  The  purest  part  of  our  life  runs  first,  and 
leaves  only  the  dregs  at  the  bottom;  and  "that  time,  which 
is  good  for  nothing  else,  we  dedicate  to  virtue;"  and  only 
propound  to  begin  to  live  at  an  age  that  very  few  people  ar- 
rive at.  What  greater  folly  can  there  be  in  the  world  than 
this  loss  of  time,  the  future  being  so  uncertain,  and  the  da- 
mages so  irreparable.?  If  death  be  necessary,  why  should 
any  man  fear  it?  and  if  the  time  of  it  be  uncertain,  why 
should  not  we  always  expect  it?  We  should  therefore  first 
prepare  ourselves  by  a  virtuous  life  against  the  dread  of  an 
inevitable  death;  and  it  is  not  for  us  to  put  off  being  good 
until  such  or  such  a  business  is  over,  for  one  business  draws 
on  another,  and  we  do  as  good  as  sow  it,  one  grain  produces 
more.  It  is  not  enough  to  philosophize  when  we  have 
nothing  else  to  do,  but  we  must  attend  wisdom  even  to  the 
neglect  of  all  things  else;  for  we  are  so  far  from  having  time 
to  spare,  that  the  age  of  the  world  would  be  yet  too  narrow 
for  our  business;  nor  is  it  sufficient  not  to  omit  it,  but  we 
must  not  so  much  as  intermit  it. 

There  is  nothing  that  we  can  properly  call  our  own  but  our 

time,  and  yet  every  body  fools  us  out  of  it 
We  can  call  no-     xhzx.  has  a  mind  to  it.     If  a  man  borrows  a 

thing  our  own  t  r-  _^i  ^       i 

but  our  time  paultry     sum     of     money,     there     must     be 

bonds  and  securities,  and  every  common 
civility  is  presently  charged  upon  account;  but  he  that  has 
my  time,  thinks  he  owes  me  nothing  for  it,  though  it  be  a 
debt  that  gratitude  itself  can  never  repay,  I  cannot  call  any 
man  poor  that  has  enough  still  left,  be  it  never  so  little:  it  is 
good  advice  yet  to  those  that  have  the  world  before  them,  to 
play  the  good  husbands  betimes,  for  it  is  too  late  to  spare  at 
the  bottom,  when  all  is  drawn  out  to  the  lees.  He  that  takes 
away  a  day  from  me,  takes  away  what  he  can  never  restore 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  185 

me.  But  our  time  is  either  forced  away  from  us,  or  stolen 
from  us,  or  lost;  of  which  the  last  is  the  foulest  miscarriage. 
It  is  in  life  as  in  a  journey:  a  book  or  a  companion  brings  us 
to  our  lodging  before  we  thought  we  were  half-way.  Upon 
the  whole  matter  we  consume  ourselves  one  upon  another, 
without  any  regard  at  all  to  our  own  particular.  I  do  not 
speak  of  such  as  live  in  notorious  scandal,  but  even  those 
men  themselves,  whom  the  world  pronounces  happy,  are 
smothered  in  their  felicities,  servants  to  their  professions  and 
clients,  and  drowned  in  their  lusts.  We  are  apt  to  complain 
of  the  haughtiness  of  great  men,  when  yet  there  is  hardly 
any  of  them  all  so  proud  but  that,  at  some  time  or  other,  a 
man  may  yet  have  access  to  him,  and  perhaps  a  good  word 
or  look  into  the  bargain.  Why  do  we  not  rather  complain  of 
ourselves,  for  being  of  all  others,  even  to  ourselves,  the  most 
deaf  and  inaccessible? 

Company   and   business   are  great  devourers   of  time,   and 
our  vices  destroy  our  lives  as  well  as  our  for- 
tunes.    The    present    is    but    a    moment,    and    Company  and 

perpetually  in  flux;    the  time  past,  we  call  to     "^^^"-^  ^^^ 
*^  .     ■,        ,  ,  1     •  Ml       i_  •  J         1         great  devourers 

mmd  when  we  please,  and  it  will  abide  the  of  time 
examination  and  inspection.  But  the  busy 
man  has  not  leisure  to  look  back,  or  if  he  has,  it  is  an  un- 
pleasant thing  to  reflect  upon  a  life  to  be  repented  of,  whereas 
the  conscience  of  a  good  life  puts  a  man  into  a  secure  and 
perpetual  possession  of  a  felicity  never  to  be  disturbed  or 
taken  away:  but  he  that  has  led  a  wicked  life  is  afraid  of  his 
own  memory;  and,  in  the  review  of  himself,  he  finds  only 
appetite,  avarice,  or  ambition,  instead  of  virtue.  But  still  he 
that  is  not  at  leisure  many  times  to  live,  must,  when  his  fate 
comes,  whether  he  will  or  not,  be  at  leisure  to  die.  Alas! 
what  is  time  to  eternity?  the  age  of  a  man  to  the  age  of  the 
world?  And  how  much  of  this  little  do  we  spend  in  fears, 
anxieties,  tears,  childhood!  nay,  we  sleep  away  the  one  half. 
How  great  a  part  of  it  runs  away  in  luxury  and  excess:  the 
ranging  of  our  guests,  our  servants,  and  our  dishes?  As  if  we 
were  to  eat  and  drink  not  for  satiety,  but  ambition.  The 
nights  may  well  seem  short  that  are  so  dear  bought,  and  be- 
stowed upon  wine  and  women;  the  day  is  lost  in  expecta- 
tion of  the  night,  and  the  night  in  the  apprehension  of  the 
morning.  There  is  a  terror  in  our  very  pleasures;  and  this 
vexatious  thought  in  the  very  height  of  them,  that  they  will 
not  last  always:  which  is  a  canker  in  the  delights,  even  of  the 
greatest  and  the  most  fortunate  of  men. 


1 86  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 


CHAP.   XX 

Happy  is  the  man  that  may  choose  his  own  business 

Oh  the  blessings  of  privacy  and  leisure!  The  wish  of  the 
powerful  and  eminent,  but  the  privilege  only  of  inferiors; 
who  are  the  only  people  that  live  to  themselves:  nay,  the 
very  thought  and  hope  of  it  is  a  consolation,  even  in  the  mid- 
dle of  all  the  tumults  and  hazards  that  attend  greatness.  It 
was  Augustus's  prayer,  that  he  might  live  to  retire  and  deliver 
himself  from  public  business:  his  discourses  were  still  pointing 
that  way,  and  the  highest  felicity  which  this  mighty  prince  had 
in  prospect,  was  the  divesting  himself  of  that  illustrious  state, 
which,  how  glorious  soever  in  show,  had  at  the  bottom  of  it 
only  anxiety  and  care.  But  it  is  one  thing  to  retire  for  plea- 
sure, and  another  thing  for  virtue,  which  must  be  active  even 
in  that  retreat,  and  give  proof  of  what  it  has  learned:  for  a 
good  and  a  wise  man  does  in  privacy  consult  the  well-being 
of  posterity.  Zeno  and  Chrysippus  did  greater  things  in 
their  studies  than  if  they  had  led  armies,  borne  offices,  or 
given  laws;  which  in  truth  they  did,  not  to  one  city  alone, 
but  to  all  mankind:  their  quiet  contributed  more  to  the  com- 
mon benefit  than  the  sweat  and  labour  of  other  people.  That 
retreat  is  not  worth  the  while  which  does  not  afford  a  man 
greater  and  nobler  work  than  business.  There  is  no  slavish 
attendance  upon  great  officers,  no  canvassing  for  places, 
no  making  of  parties,  no  disappointments  in  my  pretension 
to  this  charge,  to  that  regiment,  or  to  such  or  such  a  title,  no 
envy  of  any  man's  favour  or  fortune;  but  a  calm  enjoyment 
of  the  general  bounties  of  Providence  in  company  with  a 
good  conscience.  A  wise  man  is  never  so  busy  as  in  the 
solitary  contemplation  of  God  and  the  works  of  Nature.  He 
withdraws  himself  to  attend  the  service  of  future  ages:  and 
those  counsels  which  he  finds  salutary  to  himself,  he  commits 
to  writing  for  the  good  of  after-times,  as  we  do  the  receipts 
of  sovereign  antidotes  or  balsams.  He  that  is  well  employed 
in  his  study,  though  he  may  seem  to  do  nothing  at  all,  does 
the  greatest  things  yet  of  all  others,  in  affairs  both  human 
and  divine.  To  supply  a  friend  with  a  sum  of  money,  or 
give  my  voice  for  an  office,  these  are  only  private  and  parti- 
cular obligations:    but  he  that  lays  down   precepts  for  the 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  187 

governing  of  our  lives  and  the  moderating  of  our  passions, 
obliges  human  nature  not  only  in  the  present,  but  in  all  suc- 
ceeding generations. 

He  that  would  be  at  quiet,  let  him  repair  to  his  philosophy, 
a  study  that  has  credit  with  all  sorts  of  men. 

The    eloquence    of    the    bar,    or    whatsoever    PMosophy  is  a 

,  ,  ,^  ,  ,        .  .  ,        qmet  study 

else  addresses  to  the  people,  is  never  with- 
out enemies;  but  philosophy  minds  its  own  business,  and 
even  the  worst  have  an  esteem  for  it.  There  can  never  be 
such  a  conspiracy  against  virtue,  the  world  can  never  be  so 
wicked,  but  the  very  name  of  a  ■philosopher  shall  still  continue 
venerable  and  sacred.  And  yet  philosophy  itself  must  be 
handled  modestly  and  with  caution.  But  what  shall  we  say 
of  Cato  then,  for  his  meddling  in  the  broil  of  a  civil  war,  and 
interposing  himself  in  the  quarrel  betwixt  two  enraged  princes? 
He  that,  when  Rome  was  split  into  two  factions  betwixt  Pom- 
pey  and  Caesar,  declared  himself  against  both.  I  speak  this  of 
Cato's  last  part;  for  in  his  former  time  the  commonwealth 
was  made  unfit  for  a  wise  man's  administration.  All  he 
could  do  then  was  but  bawling  and  beating  of  the  air:  one 
while  he  was  lugged  and  tumbled  by  the  rabble,  spit  upon  and 
dragged  out  of  the  forum,  and  then  again  hurried  out  of  the 
senate-house  to  prison.  There  are  some  things  which  we 
propound  originally,  and  others  that  fall  in  as  accessary  to 
another  proposition.  If  a  wise  man  retire,  it  is  no  matter 
whether  he  does  it  because  the  commonwealth  was  wanting 
to  him,  or  because  he  was  wanting  to  it.  But  to  what  repub- 
lic shall  a  man  betake  himself  .•*  Not  to  Athens,  where  Socrates 
was  condemned,  and  whence  Aristotle  fled,  for  fear  he  should 
have  been  condemned  too,  and  where  virtue  was  oppressed 
by  envy:  not  to  Carthage,  where  there  was  nothing  but 
tyranny,  injustice,  cruelty,  and  ingratitude.  There  is  scarce 
any  government  to  be  found  that  will  either  endure  a  wise 
man,  or  which  a  wise  man  will  endure;  so  that  privacy  is 
made  necessary,  because  the  only  thing  which  is  better  is  no 
where  to  be  had.  A  man  may  commend  navigation,  and  yet 
caution  us  against  those  seas  that  are  troublesome  and  dan- 
gerous: so  that  he  does  as  good  as  command  me  not  to  weigh 
anchor  that  commends  sailing  only  upon  these  terms.  He 
that  is  a  slave  to  business  is  the  most  wretched  of  slaves. 
"But  how  shall  I  get  myself  at  liberty?     We  can  run  any 


1 88  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

hazards  for  money;    take  any  pains  for  honour; 
Liberty  is  to  ^^jj  ^j^y  Jq  ^g    j^q^  venture   something    also 

be  purchased  c        ^   •  j     r       j        5        •  i  1  •   1 

at  any  rate  ^^   leisure    and    freedom  ?    without   which   we 

must  expect  to  live  and  die  in  a  tumult:    for  so 
long  as  we  live  in  public,  business  breaks  in  upon  us,  as  one 
billow  drives  on  another;    and  there  is  no  avoiding  it  with 
either  modesty  or  quiet.     It  is  a  kind  of  whirlpool,  that  sucks 
a  man  in,  and  he  can  never  disengage  himself.       A  man  of 
business  cannot  in  truth  be  said  to  live,  and  not  one  of  a  thou- 
sand  understands  how  to  do  it:    for  how  to  live,  and  how  to 
die,  is  the  lesson  of  every  moment  of  our  lives:    all  other  arts 
have  their  masters.     As  a  busy  life  is  always  a  miserable  life,  so 
is  it  the  greatest  of  all  miseries  to  be  perpetually  employed  upon 
other  people's  business;    for  to  sleep,  to  eat,  to  drink,  at  their 
hours;  to  walk  their  pace,  and  to  love  and  hate  as  they  do,  is 
the  vilest  of  servitudes.     Now,  though  business  must  be  quitted, 
let  it  not  be  done  unseasonably;     the  longer  we  defer  it,  the 
more  we  endanger  our  liberty;    and  yet  we  must  no  more  fly 
before  the  time  than  linger  when  the  time  comes:  or,  however, 
we  must  not  love  business  for  business'  sake,  nor  indeed  do 
we,  but  for  the  profit  that  goes  along  with  it:  for  we  love  the 
reward  of  misery,  though  we  hate   the  misery  itself.     Many 
people,  I  know,  seek  business  without  choosing  it,  and  they 
are  even  weary  of  their  lives  without  it  for  want  of  entertain- 
ment in  their  own  thoughts;  the  hours  are  long  and  hateful  to 
them  when  they  are  alone,  and  they  seem  as  short  on  the 
other   side    in    their   debauches.     When    they    are    no    longer 
candidates,  they  are   suffragants;    when  they  give   over  other 
people's  business,  they  do   their  own;    and  pretend   business, 
but  they  make  it,  and  value  themselves  upon  being  thought 
men   of  employment.     Liberty  is  the  thing  which  they  are 
perpetually   a-wishing,  and   never  come  to  obtain:     a  thing 
never  to  be  bought  nor  sold,  but  a  man  must  ask  it  of  himself, 
and  give  it  to  himself.     He  that  has  given  proof  of  his  virtue 
in  public,  should  do  well  to  make  trial  of  it  in  private  also.     It 
is  not  that  solitude,  or  a  country  life,  teaches  innocence  or 
frugality;    but  vice  falls  of  itself,  without  witnesses  and  spec- 
tators, for  the  thing  it  designs  is  to  be  taken  notice  of.     Did 
ever  any  man  put  on  rich  clothes  not  to  be  seen  ?  or  spread  the 
pomp  of  his  luxury  where  nobody  was  to  take  notice  of  it?     If 
it  were  not  for  admirers  and  spectators  there  would  be  no 
temptations  to  excess:    the  very  keeping  of  us  from  exposing 


SENECA   OF   A   HAPPY   LIFE  189 

them  cures  us  of  desiring  them,  for  vanity  and  intemperance 
are  fed  with  ostentation. 

He  that  has  Hved  at  sea  in  a  storm,  let  him  retire  and  die  in 
the  haven;  but   let  his  retreat  be  without  os- 
tentation,  and  wherein  he  may  enjoy  himself    '^''.^ff'  People 

.  ,  ,  •  •  ,  1  wtihdrazv  for 

With    a    good    conscience,    without    the    want,    ^^^,^^^1  ends 

the  fear,  the  hatred,  or  the  desire,  of  any 
thing;  not  out  of  a  malevolent  detestation  of  mankind,  but 
for  satisfaction  and  repose.  He  that  shuns  both  business  and 
men,  either  out  of  envy,  or  any  other  discontent,  his  retreat  is 
but  to  the  life  of  a  mole:  nor  does  he  live  to  himself,  as  a 
wise  man  does,  but  to  his  bed,  his  belly,  and  his  lusts.  Many 
people  seem  to  retire  out  of  a  weariness  of  public  affairs,  and 
the  trouble  of  disappointments;  and  yet  ambition  finds  them 
out  even  in  that  recess  into  which  fear  and  weariness  had  cast 
them;  and  so  does  luxury,  pride,  and  most  of  the  distempers 
of  a  public  life.  There  are  many  that  lie  close,  not  that  they 
may  live  securely,  but  that  they  may  transgress  more  private- 
ly: it  is  their  conscience,  not  their  states,  that  makes  them 
keep  a  porter;  for  they  live  at  such  a  rate,  that  to  be  seen 
before  they  be  aware  is  to  be  detected.  Crates  saw  a  young 
man  walking  by  himself;  "Have  a  care,"  says  he,  "of  lewd 
company."  Some  men  are  busy  in  idleness,  and  make  peace 
more  laborious  and  troublesome  than  war;  nay,  and  more 
wicked  too,  when  they  bestow  it  upon  such  lusts,  and  other 
vices,  which  even  the  licence  of  a  military  life  would  not  en- 
dure. We  cannot  call  these  people  men  of  leisure  that  are 
wholly  taken  up  with  their  pleasures.  A  troublesome  life  is 
much  to  be  preferred  before  a  slothful  one;  and  it  is  a 
strange  thing,  methinks,  that  any  man  should  fear  death  that 
has  buried  himself  alive;  as  privacy  without  letters  is  but  the 
burying  of  a  man  quick. 

There  are  some  that  make  a  boast  of  their  retreat,  which  is 
but   a  kind   of  lazy  ambition:    they   retire  to 

make   people   talk   of  them,   whereas   I   would    ^°T  "^'yf'!' 

y  •  ^    ^  ,  .  ,  .-     to  be  talked  of 

rather     withdraw      to      speak     with      myself. 

And  what  shall  that  be,  but  that  which  we  are  apt  to  speak  of 
one  another?  I  will  speak  ill  of  myself;  I  will  examine,  ac- 
cuse, and  punish  my  infirmities.  I  have  no  design  to  be  cried 
up  for  a  great  man,  that  had  renounced  the  world  in  a  con- 
tempt of  the  vanity  and  madness  of  human  life;  I  blame  no 
body  but  myself,  and  I  address  only  to  myself.  He  that 
comes  to  me  for  help  is  mistaken,  for  I  am  not  a  physician, 


I90  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

but  a  patient:  and  I  shall  be  well  enough  content  to  have  it 
said,  when  any  man  leaves  me,  "I  took  him  for  a  happy 
and  a  learned  man,  and  truly  I  find  no  such  matter."  I  had 
rather  have  my  retreat  pardoned  than  envied.  There  are 
some  creatures  that  confound  their  footing  about  their  dens, 
that  they  may  not  be  found  out,  and  so  should  a  wise  man  in 
the  case  of  his  retirement.  When  the  door  is  open,  the  thief 
passes  it  by,  as  not  worth  his  while;  but  when  it  is  bolted  and 
sealed,  it  is  a  temptation  for  people  to  be  prying.  To  have  it 
said,  "that  such  a  one  is  never  out  of  his  study;  and  sees 
nobody,"  &c.  this  furnishes  matter  for  discourse.  He  that 
makes  his  retirement  too  strict  and  severe  does  as  good  as  call 
company  to  take  notice  of  it. 

Every   man    knows    his    own    constitution.     One    eases    his 
stomach    by   vomit,    another   supports   it   with 
Phtlosophy  re-        good  nourishment:    he  that  has  the  gout  for- 
quttes  privacy  ,  •  j    i     ^i  •  j 

and  freedom  '^^.^^^  ^^"^  ^"^   bathing,   and  every  man  ap- 

plies to  the  part  that  is  most  infirm.  He  that 
shows  a  gouty  foot,  a  lame  hand,  or  contracted  nerves,  shall 
be  permitted  to  lie  still  and  attend  his  cure;  and  why  not  so 
in  the  vices  of  his  mind  ?  We  must  discharge  all  impediments, 
and  make  way  for  philosophy,  as  a  study  inconsistent  with 
common  business.  To  all  other  things  we  must  deny  our- 
selves openly  and  frankly:  when  we  are  sick  we  refuse  visits, 
keep  ourselves  close,  and  lay  aside  all  public  cares;  and  shall 
we  not  do  as  much  when  we  philosophize?  Business  is  the 
drudgery  of  the  world,  and  only  fit  for  slaves,  but  contempla- 
tion is  the  work  of  wise  men.  Not  but  that  solitude  and 
company  may  be  allowed  to  take  their  turns;  the  one  creates 
in  us  the  love  of  mankind,  the  other  that  of  ourselves;  soli- 
tude relieves  us  when  we  are  sick  of  company,  and  conversa- 
tion when  we  are  weary  of  being  alone;  so  that  the  one 
cures  the  other.  "There  is  no  man,"  in  fine,  "so  miserable 
as  he  that  is  at  a  loss  how  to  spend  his  time."  He  is  restless 
in  his  thoughts,  unsteady  in  his  counsels,  dissatisfied  with  the 
present,  solicitous  for  the  future;  whereas  he  that  prudently 
computes  his  hours  and  his  business,  does  not  only  fortify 
himself  against  the  common  accidents  of  life,  but  improves 
the  most  rigorous  dispensations  of  Providence  to  his  comfort, 
and  stands  firm  under  all  the  trials  of  human  weakness. 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  191 

CHAP.   XXI 

The  contempt  of  death  makes  all  the  miseries  of  life 
easy  to  us 

It  is  a  hard  task  to  master  the  natural  desire  of  life  by  a 
philosophical  contempt  of  death,  and  to  convince  the  world 
that  there  is  no  hurt  in  it,  and  crush  an  opinion  that  was 
brought  up  with  us  from  our  cradles.  What  help?  what  en- 
couragement? what  shall  we  say  to  human  frailty,  to  carry 
it  fearless  through  the  fury  of  flames,  and  upon  the  points  of 
swords?  what  rhetoric  shall  we  use  to  bear  down  the  univer- 
sal consent  of  people  to  so  dangerous  an  error?  The  cap- 
tious and  superfine  subtleties  of  the  schools  will  never  do  the 
work:  these  speak  many  things  sharp,  but  utterly  unneces- 
sary, and  void  of  effect.  The  truth  of  it  is,  there  is  but  one 
chain  that  holds  all  the  world  in  bondage,  and  that  is  the 
love  of  life.  It  is  not  that  I  propound  the  making  of  death 
so  indifferent  to  us,  as  it  is,  whether  a  man's  hairs  be  even  or 
odd;  for  what  with  self-love,  and  an  implanted  desire  in 
every  thing  of  preserving  itself,  and  a  long  acquaintance  be- 
twixt the  soul  and  body,  friends  may  be  loth  to  part,  and 
death  may  carry  an  appearance  of  evil,  though  in  truth  it  is 
itself  no  evil  at  all.  Beside,  that  we  are  to  go  to  a  strange 
place  in  the  dark,  and  under  great  uncertainties  of  our  future 
state;  so  that  people  die  in  terror,  because  they  do  not  know 
whither  they  are  to  go,  and  they  are  apt  to  fancy  the  worst 
of  what  they  do  not  understand:  these  thoughts  are  indeed 
sufficient  to  startle  a  man  of  great  resolution  without  a  won- 
derful support  from  above.  And,  moreover,  our  natural  scru- 
ples and  infirmities  are  assisted  by  the  wits  and  fancies  of  all 
ages,  in  their  infamous  and  horrid  description  of  another 
world:  nay,  taking  it  for  granted  that  there  will  be  no  re- 
ward and  punishment,  they  are  yet  more  afraid  of  an  annihi- 
lation than  of  hell  itself. 

But  what  is  it  we  fear?     "Oh!   it  is  a  terrible  thing  to  die." 
Well;    and   is   it   not  better  once    to    suffer  it, 
than  always  to  fear  it?     The  earth  itself  suf-   fj^lj^^^^" 
fers     both    with    me,     and     before    me.     How 
many  islands  are  swallowed  up  in  the  sea?    how  many  towns 
do  we  sail  over?    nay,  how  many  nations   are  wholly  lost, 
either  by  inundations  or  earthquakes?   and  shall  I  be  afraid  of 
my  little  body?     Why  should  I,  that  am  sure  to  die,  and  that 


192  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

all  other  things  are  mortal,  be  fearful  of  coming  to  my  last 
gasp  myself?  It  is  the  fear  of  death  that  makes  us  base,  and 
troubles  and  destroys  the  life  that  we  would  preserve;  that 
aggravates  all  circumstances,  and  makes  them  formidable. 
We  depend  but  upon  a  flying  moment.  Die  we  must;  but 
when?  what  is  that  to  us?  It  is  the  law  of  Nature,  the  tri- 
bute of  mortals,  and  the  remedy  of  all  evils.  It  is  only  the 
disguise  that  afi^rights  us;  as  children  that  are  terrified  with  a 
vizor.  Take  away  the  instruments  of  death,  the  fire,  the 
axe,  the  guards,  the  executioners,  the  whips,  and  the  racks; 
take  away  the  pomp,  I  say,  and  the  circumstances  that  ac- 
company it,  and  death  is  no  more  than  what  my  slave  yester- 
day contemned,  the  pain  is  nothing  to  a  fit  of  the  stone;  if  it 
be  tolerable,  it  is  not  great;  and  if  intolerable,  it  cannot  last 
long.  There  is  nothing  that  Nature  has  made  necessary 
which  is  more  easy  than  death:  we  are  longer  a-coming  into 
the  world  than  going  out  of  it;  and  there  is  not  any  minute 
of  our  lives  wherein  we  may  not  reasonably  expect  it.  Nay, 
it  is  but  a  moment's  work  the  parting  of  the  soul  and  body. 
What  a  shame  it  is  then  to  stand  in  fear  of  any  thing  so  long 
that  is  over  so  soon? 

Nor  is  it  any  great  matter  to  overcome  this  fear:    for  we 
have    examples    as    well    of    the    meanest    of 
The  fear  of  death    ^^^    ^^    ^f   ^^^    greatest    that    have    done    it. 
IS  easily  overcome    ,^.  ^,,  ,  , 

Ihere    was    a    tellow    to     be    exposed    upon 

the  theatre,  who  in  disdain  thrust  a  stick  down  his  own 
throat,  and  choked  himself;  and  another,  on  the  same  occa- 
sion, pretended  to  nod  upon  the  chariot,  as  if  he  were  asleep, 
cast  his  head  betwixt  the  spokes  of  the  wheel,  and  kept  his 
seat  till  his  neck  was  broken.  Caligula,  upon  a  dispute  with 
Canius  Julius;  "Do  not  flatter  yourself,"  says  he,  "for  I 
have  given  orders  to  put  you  to  death."  "  I  thank  your  most 
gracious  Majesty  for  it,"  says  Canius,  giving  to  understand 
perhaps,  that  under  his  government  death  was  a  mercy:  for 
he  knew  that  Caligula  seldom  failed  of  being  as  good  as  his 
word  in  that  case.  He  was  at  play  when  the  officer  carried 
him  away  to  his  execution,  and  beckoning  to  the  centurion, 
"Pray,"  says  he,  "will  you  bear  me  witness,  when  I  am 
dead  and  gone,  that  I  had  the  better  of  the  game."  He  was 
a  man  exceedingly  beloved  and  lamented:  and,  for  a  fare- 
well, after  he  had  preached  moderation  to  his  friends; 
"You,"  says  he,  "  are  here  disputing  about  the  immortality 
of  the  soul,  and  I  am  now  going  to  learn  the  truth  of  it.     If  I 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  193 

discover  any  thing  upon  that  point,  you  shall  hear  of  it." 
Nay,  the  most  timorous  of  creatures,  when  they  see  there  is 
no  escaping,  they  oppose  themselves  to  all  dangers;  the  de- 
spair gives  them  courage,  and  the  necessity  overcomes  the 
fear.  Socrates  was  thirty  days  in  prison  after  his  sentence, 
and  had  time  enough  to  have  starved  himself,  and  so  to  have 
prevented  the  poison;  but  he  gave  the  world  the  blessing  of 
his  life  as  long  as  he  could,  and  took  that  fatal  draught  in  the 
meditation  and  contempt  of  death.  Marcellinus,  in  a  deli- 
beration upon  death,  called  several  of  his  friends  about  him: 
one  was  fearful,  and  advised  what  he  himself  would  have 
done  in  the  case;  another  gave  the  counsel  which  he  thought 
Marcellinus  would  like  best;  but  a  friend  of  his,  that  was  a 
Stoic,  and  a  stout  man,  reasoned  the  matter  to  him  after  this 
manner;  Marcellinus,  do  not  trouble  yourself,  as  if  it  were 
such  a  mighty  business  that  you  have  now  in  hand;  it  is 
nothing  to  live;  all  your  servants  do  it,  nay,  your  very 
beasts  too;  but  to  die  honestly  and  resolutely,  that  is  a  great 
point.  Consider  with  yourself  there  is  nothing  pleasant  in 
life  but  what  you  have  tasted  already,  and  that  which  is  to 
come  is  but  the  same  over  again;  and  how  many  men  are 
there  in  the  world  that  rather  choose  to  die  than  to  suffer  the 
nauseous  tediousness  of  the  repetition.?  Upon  which  dis- 
course he  fasted  himself  to  death.  It  was  the  custom  of 
Pacuvius  to  solemnize  in  a  kind  of  pageantry,  every  day  his 
own  funerals.  When  he  had  swilled  and  gormandized  to  a 
luxurious  and  beastly  excess,  he  was  carried  away  from  sup- 
per to  bed  with  this  song  and  acclamation,  "He  has  lived, 
he  has  lived."  That  which  he  did  in  lewdness,  will  become 
us  to  do  in  sobriety  and  prudence.  If  it  shall  please  God  to 
add  another  day  to  our  lives,  let  us  thankfully  receive  it; 
but,  however,  it  is  our  happiest  and  securest  course  so  to 
compose  ourselves  to-night,  that  we  may  have  no  anxious 
dependence  upon  to-morrow.  "He  that  can  say,  I  have 
lived  this  day,  makes  the  next  clear  again." 

Death  is  the  worst  that  either  the  severity  of  laws,  or  the 
cruelty  of  tyrants,  can  impose  upon  us;    and 
it   is   the    utmost    extent   of  the    dominion    of   ^^  ^^^^  despises 
Fortune.     He    that    is    fortified    against    that,    ^QiuJa 
must,    consequently,    be   superior   to    all   other 
difficulties  that  are  but  in  the  way  to  it.     Nay,  and  on  some 
occasions,  it  requires  more  courage  to  live  than  to  die.     He 
that  is  not  prepared  for  death  shall  be  perpetually  troubled,  as 


194  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

well  with  vain  apprehensions,  as  with  real  dangers.  It  is  not 
death  itself  that  is  dreadful,  but  the  fear  of  it  that  goes  before 
it.  When  the  mind  is  under  a  consternation,  there  is  no 
state  of  life  that  can  please  us;  for  we  do  not  so  endeavour 
to  avoid  mischiefs  as  to  run  away  from  them:  and  the  great- 
est slaughter  is  upon  a  flying  enemy.  Had  not  a  man  better 
breathe  out  his  last  once  for  all,  than  lie  agonizing  in  pains, 
consuming  by  inches,  losing  of  his  blood  by  drops;  and  yet 
how  many  are  there  that  are  ready  to  betray  their  country, 
and  their  friends,  and  to  prostitute  their  very  wives  and 
daughters,  to  preserve  a  miserable  carcass?  Madmen  and 
children  have  no  apprehension  of  death;  and  it  were  a 
shame  that  our  reason  should  not  do  as  much  toward  our  se- 
curity as  their  folly.  But  the  great  matter  is  to  die  consider- 
ately and  cheerfully  upon  the  foundation  of  virtue;  for  life 
in  itself  is  irksome,  and  only  eating  and  drinking  in  a  circle. 
How  many  are  there  that,   betwixt  the   apprehensions  of 

death  and  the  miseries  of  life,  are  at  their  wits* 
All  men  must         end  what  to  do  with  themselves.?     Wherefore 

let  us  fortify  ourselves  against  those  calami- 
ties from  which  the  prince  is  no  more  exempt  than  the  beggar. 
Pompey  the  Great  had  his  head  taken  off"  by  a  boy  and  a 
eunuch,  (young  Ptolemy  and  Photinus.)  Caligula  commanded 
the  tribune  Daecimus  to  kill  Lepidus;  and  another  tribune 
(Chaereus)  did  as  much  for  Caligula.  Never  was  any  man  so 
great  but  he  was  as  liable  to  suffer  mischief  as  he  was  able  to 
do  it.  Has  not  a  thief,  or  an  enemy,  your  throat  at  his  mercy? 
nay,  and  the  meanest  of  servants  has  the  power  of  life  and 
death  over  his  master;  for  whosoever  contemns  his  own  life 
may  be  master  of  another  body's.  You  will  find  in  story,  that 
the  displeasure  of  servants  has  been  as  fatal  as  that  of  tyrants: 
and  what  matters  it  the  power  of  him  we  fear,  when  the  thing 
we  fear  is  in  every  body's  power?  Suppose  I  fall  into  the 
hands  of  an  enemy,  and  the  conqueror  condemns  me  to  be  led 
in  triumph;  it  is  but  carrying  me  thither  whither  I  should 
have  gone  without  him,  that  is  to  say,  toward  death,  whither  I 
have  been  marching  ever  since  I  was  born.  It  is  the  fear  of 
our  last  hour  that  disquiets  all  the  rest.  By  the  justice  of  all 
constitutions,  mankind  is  condemned  to  a  capital  punishment; 
now,  how  despicable  would  that  man  appear  who,  being 
sentenced  to  death  in  common  with  the  whole  world,  should 
only  petition  that  he  might  be  the  last  man  brought  to  the 
block?     Some  men  are  particularly  afraid  of  thunder,  and  yet 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  195 

extremely  careless  of  other  and  of  greater  dangers:    as  if  that 

were  all  they  have  to  fear.     Will  not  a  sword,  a  stone,  a  fever, 

do  the  work  as  well?     Suppose  the  bolt  should  hit  us,  it  were 

yet  braver  to  die  with  a  stroke  than  with  the  bare  apprehension 

of  it:    beside  the  vanity  of  imagining  that  heaven  and  earth 

should  be  put  into  such  a  disorder  only  for  the  death  of  one 

man.     A  good  and  a  brave  man  is  not  moved  with  lightning, 

tempest,  or  earthquakes;    but  perhaps  he  would  voluntarily 

plunge    himself   into    that    gulf,    where    otherwise    he    should 

only  fall.     The  cutting  of  a  corn,  or  the  swallowing  of  a  fly,  is 

enough  to  dispatch  a  man;   and  it  is  no  matter  how  great  that 

is  that  brings  me  to  my  death,  so  long  as  death  itself  is  but 

little.     Life  is  a  small  matter;    but  it  is  a  matter  of  importance 

to  contemn  it.     Nature  that  begat  us,  expels  us,  and  a  better 

and  a  safer  place  is  provided  for  us.     And  what  is  death  but  a 

ceasing  to  be  what  we  were  before.''     We  are  kindled  and  put 

out:   to  cease  to  be,  and  not  to  begin  to  be,  is  the  same  thing. 

We  die  daily,  and  while  we  are  growing,  our  life  decreases; 

every  moment  that  passes  takes  away  part  of  it;    all  that  is 

past  is  lost;    nay,  we  divide  with  death  the  very  instant  that 

we  live.     As  the  last  sand  in  the  glass  does  not  measure  the 

hour,  but  finishes  it;    so  the  last  moment  that  we  live  does 

not  make  up  death,  but  concludes.     There  are  some  that  pray 

more  earnestly  for  death  than  we  do  for  life;    but  it  is  better 

to  receive  it  cheerfully  when  it  comes  than  to  hasten  it  before 

the  time. 

"But  what  is  it  that  we  would  live  any  longer  for?"     Not 

for    our    pleasures;     for   those  we  have   tasted 

over  and  over,  even  to  satiety:    so  that  there    ^0  ^^^' ^^^ 

•    ^      f  1  1         •  (trt  should  zae  covet 

is  no  pomt  or  luxury  that  is  new  to  us.        out    ^^rp 

a   man   would    be   loth    to   leave   his    country 

and  his  friends  behind  him;"    that  is  to  say,  he  would  have 

them  go  first;  for  that  is  the  least  part  of  his  care.  "Well; 

but  I  would  fain  live  to  do  more  good,  and  discharge  myself  in 

the  offices  of  life:"   as  if  to  die  were  not  the  duty  of  every  man 

that  lives.    We  are  loth  to  leave  our  possessions;    and  no  man 

swims  well  with  his  luggage.     We  are  all  of  us  equally  fearful 

of  death,  and  ignorant  of  life;   but  what  can  be  more  shameful 

than  to  be  solicitous  upon  the  brink  of  security?     If  death  be 

at  any  time  to  be  feared,  it  is  always  to  be  feared;    but  the 

way  never  to  fear  it,  is  to  be  often  thinking  of  it.     To  what  end 

is  it  to  put  ofF  for  a  little  while  that  which  we  cannot  avoid? 

He  that  dies  does  but  follow  him  that  is  dead.     "Why  are  we 


196  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

then  so  long  afraid  of  that  which  is  so  little  awhile  of  doing?" 
How  miserable  are  those  people  that  spend  their  lives  in  the 
dismal  apprehensions  of  death !  for  they  are  beset  on  all  hands, 
and  every  minute  in  dread  of  a  surprise.  We  must  therefore 
look  about  us,  as  if  we  were  in  an  enemy's  country;  and  con- 
sider our  last  hour,  not  as  a  punishment,  but  as  the  law  of  Na- 
ture: the  fear  of  it  is  a  continual  palpitation  of  the  heart,  and 
he  that  overcomes  that  terror  shall  never  be  troubled  with  any 
other.  Life  is  a  navigation;  we  are  perpetually  wallowing 
and  dashing  one  against  another:  sometimes  we  suffer  ship- 
wreck, but  we  are  always  in  danger  and  in  expectation  of  it. 
And  what  is  it  when  it  comes,  but  either  the  end  of  a  journey, 
or  a  passage?  It  is  as  great  a  folly  to  fear  death  as  to  fear  old 
age;  nay,  as  to  fear  life  itself;  for  he  that  would  not  die  ought 
not  to  live,  since  death  is  the  condition  of  life.  Beside  that  it 
is  a  madness  to  fear  a  thing  that  is  certain;  for  where  there  is 
no  doubt,  there  is  no  place  for  fear. 

We  are  still  chiding  of  Fate,  and  even  those  that  exact  the 
most  rigorous  justice  betwixt  man  and  man  are 
0    leis  to  yet  themselves  unjust  to  Providence.   "Why  was 

such  a  one  taken  away  in  the  prime  of  his 
years?"  As  if  it  were  the  number  of  years  that  makes  death 
easy  to  us,  and  not  the  temper  of  the  mind.  He  that  would 
live  a  little  longer  to-day,  would  be  as  loth  to  die  a  hundred 
years  hence.  But  which  is  more  reasonable  for  us  to  obey 
Nature,  or  for  Nature  to  obey  us?  Go  we  must  at  last,  and  no 
matter  how  soon.  It  is  the  work  of  Fate  to  make  us  live  long, 
but  it  is  the  business  of  virtue  to  make  a  short  life  sufficient. 
Life  is  to  be  measured  by  action,  not  by  time;  a  man  may  die 
old  at  thirty,  and  young  at  fourscore:  nay,  the  one  lives  after 
death,  and  the  other  perished  before  he  died.  I  look  upon  age 
among  the  effects  of  chance.  How  long  I  shall  live  is  in  the 
power  of  others,  but  it  is  in  my  own  how  well.  The  largest 
space  of  time  is  to  live  till  a  man  is  wise.  He  that  dies  of  old 
age  does  no  more  than  go  to-bed  when  he  is  weary.  Death  is 
the  test  of  life,  and  it  is  that  only  which  discovers  what  we  are, 
and  distinguishes  betwixt  ostentation  and  virtue.  A  man  may 
dispute,  cite  great  authorities,  talk  learnedly,  huff  it  out,  and 
yet  be  rotten  at  heart.  But  let  us  soberly  attend  our  business; 
and  since  it  is  uncertain  when,  or  where,  we  shall  die,  let  us 
look  for  death  in  all  places,  and  at  all  times:  we  can  never 
study  that  point  too  much,  which  we  can  never  come  to 
experiment  whether  we  know  it  or  not.     It  is  a  blessed  thing  to 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  197 

dispatch  the  business  of  life  before  we  die,  and  then  to  expect 
death  in  the  possession  of  a  happy  life.  He  is  the  great  man 
that  is  willing  to  die  when  his  life  is  pleasant  to  him.  An  hon- 
est life  is  not  a  greater  good  than  an  honest  death.  How 
many  brave  young  men,  by  an  instinct  of  Nature,  are 
carried  on  to  great  actions,  and  even  to  the  contempt  of  all 
hazards? 

It  is  childish  to  go  out  of  the  world  groaning  and  wailing  as 
we  came  into  it.     Our  bodies  must  be  thrown 
away,    as    the    secundine    that    wraps    up    the    Ij_'^^  childish  to 
.p,  ,  ,.  ,,  :  ~    ate  Lamenting 

miant,  the  other   bemg  only  the   covenng  or 

the  soul;  we  shall  then  discover  the  secrets  of  Nature;  the 
darkness  shall  be  discussed,  and  our  souls  irradiated  with  light 
and  glory:  a  glory  without  a  shadow;  a  glory  that  shall  sur- 
round us,  and  from  whence  we  shall  look  down  and  see  day 
and  night  beneath  us.  If  we  cannot  lift  up  our  eyes  toward 
the  lamp  of  heaven  without  dazzling,  what  shall  we  do  when 
we  come  to  behold  the  divine  light  in  its  illustrious  original? 
That  death  which  we  so  much  dread  and  decline,  is  not  the  de- 
termination, but  the  intermission  of  a  life,  which  will  return 
again.  All  those  things,  that  are  the  very  cause  of  life,  are  the 
way  to  death:  we  fear  it  as  we  do  fame;  but  it  is  a  great 
folly  to  fear  words.  Some  people  are  so  impatient  of  life,  that 
they  are  still  wishing  for  death;  but  he  that  wishes  to  die  does 
not  desire  it:  let  us  rather  wait  God's  pleasure,  and  pray  for 
health  and  life.  If  we  have  a  mind  to  live,  why  do  we  wish  to 
die?  If  we  have  a  mind  to  die,  we  may  do  it  without  talking  of 
it.  Men  are  a  great  deal  more  resolute  in  the  article  of  death 
itself  than  they  are  about  the  circumstances  of  it:  for  it  gives 
a  man  courage  to  consider  that  his  fate  is  inevitable:  the 
slow  approaches  of  death  are  the  most  troublesome  to  us; 
as  we  see  many  a  gladiator,  who,  upon  his  wounds,  will  direct 
his  adversary's  weapon  to  his  very  heart,  though  but  timorous 
perhaps  in  the  combat.  There  are  some  that  have  not  the 
heart  either  to  live  or  die;  that  is  a  sad  case.  But  this  we 
are  sure  of,  "the  fear  of  death  is  a  continual  slavery,  as  the 
contempt  of  it  is  certain  liberty." 


198  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

CHAP.   XXII 

Consolations  against  death, /rom  the  providence  and 
the  necessity  of  it 

This  life  is  only  a  prelude  to  eternity,  where  we  are  to 
expect  another  original,  and  another  state  of  things;  we  have 
no  prospect  of  heaven  here  but  at  a  distance;  let  us  therefore 
expect  our  last  and  decretory  hour  with  courage.  The  last 
(I  say)  to  our  bodies,  but  not  to  our  minds:  our  luggage  we 
leave  behind  us,  and  return  as  naked  out  of  the  world  as  we 
came  into  it.  The  day  which  we  fear  as  our  last  is  but  the 
birth-day  of  our  eternity;  and  it  is  the  only  way  to  it.  So  that 
what  we  fear  as  a  rock,  proves  to  be  but  a  port,  in  many  cases 
to  be  desired,  never  to  be  refused;  and  he  that  dies  young  has 
only  made  a  quick  voyage  of  it.  Some  are  becalmed,  others 
cut  it  away  before  wind;  and  we  live  just  as  we  sail:  first,  we 
rub  our  childhood  out  of  sight:  our  youth  next;  and  then  our 
middle  age;  after  that  follows  old  age,  and  brings  us  to  the 
common  end  of  mankind.  It  is  a  great  providence  that  we 
have  more  ways  out  of  the  world  than  we  have  into  it.  Our 
security  stands  upon  a  point,  the  very  article  of  death.  It 
draws  a  great  many  blessings  into  a  very  narrow  compass: 
and  although  the  fruit  of  it  does  not  seem  to  extend  to  the 
defunct,  yet  the  difficulty  of  it  is  more  than  balanced  by  the 
contemplation  of  the  future.  Nay,  suppose  that  all  the  busi- 
ness of  this  world  should  be  forgotten,  or  my  memory  tra- 
duced, what  is  all  this  to  me.?  "I  have  done  my  duty." 
Undoubtedly  that  which  puts  an  end  to  all  other  evils,  cannot 
be  a  very  great  evil  itself,  and  yet  it  is  no  easy  thing  for  flesh 
and  blood  to  despise  life.  What  if  death  comes?  If  it  does 
not  stay  with  us,  why  should  we  fear  it.?  One  hangs  himself 
for  a  mistress;  another  leaps  the  garret-window  to  avoid  a 
choleric  master;  a  third  runs  away  and  stabs  himself,  rather 
than  he  will  be  brought  back  again.  We  see  the  force  even 
of  our  infirmities,  and  shall  we  not  then  do  greater  things  for 
the  love  of  virtue.?  To  suffer  death  is  but  the  law  of  Nature; 
and  it  is  a  great  comfort  that  it  can  be  done  but  once;  in  the 
very  convulsions  of  it  we  have  this  consolation,  that  our  pain 
is  near  an  end,  and  that  it  frees  us  from  all  the  miseries  of  life. 
What  it  is  we  know  not,  and  it  were  rash  to  condemn  what 
we  do  not  understand;    but  this  we  presume,  either  that  we 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  199 

shall  pass  out  of  this  into  a  better  life,  where  we  shall  live 
with  tranquillity  and  splendour,  in  diviner  mansions,  or  else 
return  to  our  first  principles,  free  from  the  sense  of  any  in- 
convenience. There  is  nothing  immortal,  nor  many  things 
lasting;  but  by  divers  ways  every  thing  comes  to  an  end. 
What  an  arrogance  is  it  then,  when  the  world  itself  stands 
condemned  to  a  dissolution,  that  man  alone  should  expect  to 
live  for  ever?  It  is  unjust  not  to  allow  unto  the  giver  the 
power  of  disposing  of  his  own  bounty,  and  a  folly  only  to 
value  the  present.  Death  is  as  much  a  debt  as  money,  and 
life  is  but  a  journey  towards  it:  some  dispatch  it  sooner, 
others  later,  but  we  must  all  have  the  same  period.  The 
thunder-bolt  is  undoubtedly  just  that  draws  even  from  those 
that  are  struck  with  a  veneration.  A  great  soul  takes  no  de- 
light in  staying  with  the  body,  it  considers  whence  it  came, 
and  knows  whither  it  is  to  go.  The  day  will  come  that  shall 
separate  this  mixture  of  soul  and  body,  of  divine  and  human; 
my  body  I  will  leave  where  I  found  it,  my  soul  I  will  restore 
to  heaven,  which  would  have  been  there  already,  but  for  the 
clog  that  keeps  it  down:  and  beside,  how  many  men  have 
been  the  worse  for  longer  living,  that  might  have  died  with 
reputation  if  they  had  been  sooner  taken  away?  How  many 
disappointments  of  hopeful  youths,  that  have  proved  disso- 
lute men?  Over  and  above  the  ruins,  shipwrecks,  torments, 
prisons,  that  attend  long  life;  a  blessing  so  deceitful,  that  if  a 
child  were  in  condition  to  judge  of  it,  and  at  liberty  to  refuse 
it,  he  would  not  take  it. 

What    Providence    has    made    necessary,    human    prudence 
should    comply    with    cheerfully:     as    there    is 
a    necessity    of    death,    so    that    necessity    is    What  God  has 

equal    and    invincible.       No    man    has    cause    ^^^^  necessary, 

c  1    •  r  1  1  •   1  man  should  com- 

of     complamt     for     that     which     every     man    ^^^  ^-^^  ^^^^^, 

must  suffer  as  well  as  himself.  When  we  j^Uy 
should  die,  we  zuill  not,  and  when  we  would 
not,  we  must:  but  our  fate  is  fixed,  and  unavoidable  is  the  de- 
cree. Why  do  we  then  stand  trembling  when  the  time 
comes?  Why  do  we  not  as  well  lament  that  we  did  not  live 
a  thousand  years  ago,  as  that  we  shall  not  be  alive  a  thousand 
years  hence?  It  is  but  travelling  the  great  road,  and  to  the 
place  whither  we  must  all  go  at  last.  It  is  but  submitting  to 
the  law  of  Nature,  and  to  that  lot  which  the  whole  world  has 
suffered  that  is  gone  before  us;  and  so  must  they  too  that  are 
to  come  after  us.     Nay,  how  many  thousands,  when  our  time 


200  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

comes,  will  expire  in  the  same  moment  with  us?  He  that 
will  not  follow  shall  be  drawn  by  force:  and  is  it  not  much 
better  now  to  do  that  willingly  which  we  shall  otherwise  be 
made  to  do  in  spite  of  our  hearts?  The  sons  of  mortal  pa- 
rents must  expect  a  mortal  posterity;  death  is  the  end  of  great 
and  small.  We  are  born  helpless,  and  exposed  to  the  in- 
juries of  all  creatures,  and  of  all  weathers.  The  very  ne- 
cessaries of  life  are  deadly  to  us.  We  meet  with  our  fate  in 
our  dishes,  in  our  cups,  and  in  the  very  air  we  breathe;  nay, 
our  very  birth  is  inauspicious,  for  we  come  into  the  world 
weeping;  and  in  the  middle  of  our  designs,  while  we  are 
meditating  great  matters,  and  stretching  of  our  thoughts  to 
after-ages,  death  cuts  us  off:  and  our  longest  date  is  only  the 
revolution  of  a  few  years.  One  man  dies  at  the  table,  ano- 
ther goes  away  in  his  sleep,  a  third  in  his  mistress's  arms,  a 
fourth  is  stabbed,  another  is  stung  with  an  adder,  or  crushed 
with  the  fall  of  a  house.  We  have  several  ways  to  our  end, 
but  the  end  itself,  which  is  death,  is  still  the  same.  Whether 
we  die  by  a  sword,  by  a  halter,  by  a  potion,  or  by  a  disease, 
it  is  all  but  death.  A  child  dies  in  the  swaddling  clouts,  and 
an  old  man  at  a  hundred;  they  are  both  mortal  alike,  though 
the  one  goes  sooner  than  the  other.  All  that  lies  betwixt  the 
cradle  and  the  grave  is  uncertain.  If  we  compute  the  troubles, 
the  life  even  of  a  child  is  long;  if  the  sweetness  of  the  passage, 
that  of  an  old  man  is  short;  the  whole  is  slippery  and  deceit- 
ful, and  only  death  certain;  and  yet  all  people  complain  of 
that  which  never  deceived  any  man.  Senecio  raised  himself 
from  a  small  beginning  to  a  vast  fortune,  being  very  well 
skilled  in  the  faculties  both  of  getting  and  of  keeping,  and 
either  of  them  was  sufficient  for  the  doing  of  his  business. 
He  was  a  man  infinitely  careful,  both  of  his  patrimony  and 
of  his  body.  He  gave  me  a  morning's  visit,  (says  our  author) 
and  after  that  visit  he  went  away,  and  spent  the  rest  of  the 
day  with  a  friend  of  his  that  was  desperately  sick.  At  night 
he  was  merry  at  supper,  and  seized  immediately  after  with  a 
squinsy,  which  dispatched  him  in  a  few  hours.  This  man 
that  had  money  at  use  in  all  places,  and  in  the  very  course 
and  height  of  his  prosperity,  was  thus  cut  off.  How  foolish 
a  thing  is  it  then  for  a  man  to  flatter  himself  with  long  hopes, 
and  to  pretend  to  dispose  of  the  future?  Nay,  the  very  pre- 
sent slips  through  our  fingers,  and  there  is  not  that  moment 
which  we  can  call  our  own.  How  vain  a  thing  is  it  for  us  to 
enter  upon  projects,  and  to  say  to  ourselves,  "Well,  I  will 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  201 

go  build,  purchase,  discharge  such  offices,  settle  my  affairs, 
and  then  retire?"  We  are  all  of  us  born  to  the  same  casual- 
ties; all  equally  frail  and  uncertain  of  to-morrow.  At  the 
very  altar,  where  we  pray  for  life,  we  learn  to  die  by  seeing 
the  sacrifices  killed  before  us.  But  there  is  no  need  of  a 
wound,  or  searching  the  heart  for  it,  when  the  noose  of  a 
cord,  or  the  smothering  of  a  pillow,  will  do  the  work.  All 
things  have  their  seasons;  they  begin,  they  increase,  and 
they  die.  The  heavens  and  the  earth  grow  old,  and  are  ap- 
pointed their  periods.  That  which  we  call  death  is  but  a 
pause  or  suspension,  and  in  truth  a  progress  to  life;  only  our 
thoughts  look  downward  upon  the  body,  and  not  forward 
upon  things  to  come.  All  things  under  the  sun  are  mortal; 
cities,  empires:  and  the  time  will  come  when  it  shall  be  a 
question  where  they  were,  and  perchance  whether  ever  they 
had  a  being  or  not.  Some  will  be  destroyed  by  war,  others 
by  luxury,  fire,  inundations,  earthquakes:  why  should  it 
trouble  me  then  to  die,  as  a  forerunner  of  an  universal  disso- 
lution ?  A  great  mind  submits  itself  to  God,  and  suffers  will- 
ingly what  the  law  of  the  universe  will  otherwise  bring  to 
pass  upon  necessity.  That  good  old  man  Bassus,  (though  with 
one  foot  in  the  grave)  how  cheerful  a  mind  does  he  bear.? 
He  lives  in  the  view  of  death,  and  contemplates  his  own  end 
with  less  concern  of  thought  or  countenance  than  he  would 
do  another  man's.  It  is  a  hard  lesson,  and  we  are  a  long 
time  a  learning  of  it,  to  receive  our  death  without  trouble, 
especially  in  the  case  of  Bassus.  In  other  deaths  there  is  a 
mixture  of  hope;  a  disease  may  be  cured,  a  fire  quenched,  a 
falling  house  either  propped  or  avoided;  the  sea  may  swallow 
a  man  and  throw  him  up  again;  a  pardon  may  interpose  be- 
twixt the  axe  and  the  body;  but  in  the  case  of  old  age  there 
is  no  place  for  either  hope  or  intercession.  Let  us  live  in  our 
bodies,  therefore,  as  if  we  were  only  to  lodge  in  them  this 
night,  and  to  leave  them  to-morrow.  It  is  the  frequent 
thought  of  death  that  must  fortify  us  against  the  necessity  of 
it.  He  that  has  armed  himself  against  poverty,  may,  perhaps, 
come  to  live  in  plenty.  A  man  may  strengthen  himself 
against  pain,  and  yet  live  in  a  state  of  health;  against  the 
loss  of  friends,  and  never  lose  any:  but  he  that  fortifies  him- 
self against  the  fear  of  death  shall  most  certainly  have  oc- 
casion to  employ  that  virtue.  It  is  the  care  of  a  wise  and  a 
good  man  to  look  to  his  manners  and  actions;  and  rather  how 
well  he  lives  than  how  long:    for  to  die  sooner  or  later  is  not 


202  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

the  business;    but  to  die  well  or  ill:    for  "death  brings  us  to 
immortality." 


CHAP.  XXIII 

Against  immoderate  sorrow  for  the  death  of  friends 

Next  to  the  encounter  of  death  in  our  own  bodies,  the 
most  sensible  calamity  to  an  honest  man  is  the  death  of  a 
friend;  and  we  are  not  in  truth  without  some  generous  in- 
stances of  those  that  have  preferred  a  friend's  life  before  their 
own;  and  yet  this  affliction,  which  by  nature  is  so  grievous 
to  us,  is  by  virtue  and  Providence  made  familiar  and  easy. 

To  lament  the  death  of  a  friend  is  both  natural  and  just;   a 

sigh  or  a  tear  I  would  allow  to  his  memory: 

Sorrow  within        }^^^    ^^    profuse    or    obstinate    sorrow.     Cla- 

bounds  IS  allow-  ^  ir       i  ^     • 

,,  morous    and    public    lamentations    are    not    so 

much  the  effects  of  grief  as  of  vain-glory. 
He  that  is  sadder  in  company  than  alone,  shows  rather  the 
ambition  of  his  sorrow  than  the  piety  of  it.  Nay,  and  in  the 
violence  of  his  passion  there  fall  out  twenty  things  that  set 
him  a-laughing.  At  the  long-run,  time  cures  all,  but  it  were 
better  done  by  moderation  and  wisdom.  Some  people  do  as 
good  as  set  a  watch  upon  themselves,  as  if  they  were  afraid 
that  their  grief  would  make  an  escape.  The  ostentation  of 
grief  is  many  times  more  than  the  grief  itself.  When  any 
body  is  within  hearing,  what  groans  and  outcries!  when 
they  are  alone  and  private,  all  is  hush  and  quiet:  so  soon  as 
any  body  comes  in,  they  are  at  it  again;  and  down  they 
throw  themselves  upon  the  bed;  fall  to  wringing  of  their 
hands,  and  wishing  of  themselves  dead;  which  they  might 
have  executed  by  themselves;  but  their  sorrow  goes  off  with 
the  company.  We  forsake  nature,  and  run  over  to  the  prac- 
tices of  the  people,  that  never  were  the  authors  of  any  thing 
that  is  good.  If  destiny  were  to  be  wrought  upon  by  tears,  I 
would  allow  you  to  spend  your  days  and  nights  in  sadness 
and  mourning,  tearing  of  your  hair,  and  beating  of  your 
breast;  but  if  Fate  be  inexorable,  and  death  will  keep  what 
it  has  taken,  grief  is  to  no  purpose.  And  yet  I  would  not  ad- 
vise insensibility  and  hardness;    it  were  inhumanity,  and  not 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  203 

virtue,  not  to  be  moved  at  the  separation  of  familiar  friends 
and  relations:  now,  in  such  cases,  we  cannot  commend  our- 
selves, we  cannot  forbear  weeping,  and  we  ought  not  to  for- 
bear: but  let  us  not  pass  the  bounds  of  affection,  and  run  into 
imitation;  within  these  limits  it  is  some  ease  to  the  mind. 

A  wise  man  gives  way  to  tears  in  some  cases,  and  cannot 
avoid  them  in  others.  When  one  is  struck 
with  the  surprise  of  ill  news,  as  the  death  Sorrow  is  in 
of  a  friend,  or  the  like;  or  upon  the  last  ^ome  cases  dbzv- 
embrace  of  an  acquaintance  under  the  n^  \^  ^^^^^^ 
hand  of  an  executioner,  he  lies  under  a 
natural  necessity  of  weeping  and  trembling.  In  another  case 
we  may  indulge  our  sorrow,  as  upon  the  memory  of  a  dead 
friend's  conversation  or  kindness,  one  may  let  fall  tears  of 
generosity  and  joy.  We  favour  the  one,  and  we  are  over- 
come by  the  other;  and  this  is  well:  but  we  are  not  upon 
any  terms  to  force  them:  They  may  flow  of  their  own  ac- 
cord, without  derogating  from  the  dignity  of  a  wise  man; 
who  at  the  same  time  both  preserves  his  gravity,  and  obeys 
nature.  Nay,  there  is  a  certain  decorum  even  in  weeping; 
for  excess  of  sorrow  is  as  foolish  as  profuse  laughter.  Why 
do  we  not  as  well  cry,  when  our  trees  that  we  took  pleasure 
in,  shed  their  leaves,  at  the  loss  of  other  satisfactions;  when 
the  next  season  repairs  them,  either  with  the  same  again,  or 
others  in  their  places.  We  may  accuse  Fate,  but  we  cannot 
alter  it;  for  it  is  hard  and  inexorable,  and  not  to  be  removed 
either  with  reproaches  or  tears.  They  may  carry  us  to  the 
dead,  but  never  bring  them  back  again  to  us.  If  reason  does 
not  put  an  end  to  our  sorrows,  fortune  never  will:  one  is 
pinched  with  poverty;  another  solicited  with  ambition,  and 
fears  the  very  wealth  that  he  coveted.  One  is  troubled  for  the 
loss  of  children;  another  for  the  want  of  them  so  that  we 
shall  sooner  want  tears  than' matter  for  them;  let  us  therefore 
spare  that  for  which  we  have  so  much  occasion.  I  do  con- 
fess, that  in  the  very  parting  of  friends  there  is  something  of 
an  uneasiness  and  trouble;  but  it  is  rather  voluntary  than  nat- 
ural; and  it  is  custom  more  than  sense  that  affects  us:  we 
do  rather  impose  a  sorrow  upon  ourselves  than  submit  to  it; 
as  people  cry  when  they  have  company,  and  when  nobody 
looks  on,  all  is  well  again.  To  mourn  without  measure  is  folly, 
and  not  to  mourn  at  all  is  insensibility.  The  best  temper  is 
betwixt  piety  and  reason;  to  be  sensible,  but  neither  trans- 
ported nor  cast  down.     He  that  can  put  a  stop  to  his  tears  and 


204  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

pleasures  when  he  will  is  safe.  It  is  an  equal  infelicity  to  be 
either  too  soft  or  too  hard:  we  are  overcome  by  the  one,  and 
we  are  put  to  struggle  with  the  other.  There  is  a  certain  in- 
temperance in  that  sorrow  that  passes  the  rules  of  modesty; 
and  yet  great  piety  is,  in  many  cases,  a  dispensation  to  good 
manners.  The  loss  of  a  son  or  of  a  friend  cuts  a  man  to  the 
heart,  and  there  is  no  opposing  the  first  violence  of  this  pas- 
sion; but  when  a  man  comes  once  to  deliver  himself  wholly 
up  to  lamentations,  he  is  to  understand,  that  though  some 
tears  deserve  compassion,  others  are  yet  ridiculous.  A  grief 
that  is  fresh  finds  pity  and  comfort,  but  when  it  is  inveterate 
it  is  laughted  at,  for  it  is  either  counterfeit  or  foolish.  Beside 
that,  to  weep  excessively  for  the  dead  is  an  affront  to  the  liv- 
ing. The  most  justifiable  cause  of  mourning  is  to  see  good 
men  come  to  ill  ends,  and  virtue  oppressed  by  the  iniquity  of 
Fortune.  But  in  this  case,  too,  they  either  suffer  resolutely, 
and  yield  us  delight  in  their  courage  and  example,  or  meanly, 
and  so  give  us  the  less  trouble  for  the  loss.  He  that  dies 
cheerfully,  dries  up  my  tears,  and  he  that  dies  whiningly, 
does  not  deserve  them.  I  would  bear  the  death  of  friends  and 
children  with  the  same  constancy  that  I  would  expect  my 
own,  and  no  more  lament  the  one  than  fear  the  other.  He 
that  bethinks  himself,  how  often  friends  have  been  parted, 
will  find  more  time  lost  among  the  living  than  upon  the  dead; 
and  the  most  desperate  mourners  are  they  that  cared  least  for 
their  friends  when  they  were  living;  for  they  think  to  redeem 
their  credits,  for  want  of  kindness  to  the  living  by  extrava- 
gant ravings  after  the  dead.  Some  (I  know)  will  have  grief 
to  be  only  the  perverse  delight  of  a  restless  mind,  and  sorrows 
and  pleasures  to  be  near  akin;  and  there  are,  I  am  confident, 
that  find  joy  even  in  their  tears.  But  which  is  more  bar- 
barous, to  be  insensible  of  grief  for  the  death  of  a  friend,  or 
to  fish  for  pleasure  in  grief,  when  a  son  perhaps  is  burning,  or 
a  friend  expiring?  To  forget  one's  friend,  to  bury  the  mem- 
ory with  the  body,  to  lament  out  of  measure,  is  all  inhu- 
man. He  that  is  gone  either  would  not  have  his  friend  tor- 
mented, or  does  not  know  that  he  is  so:  if  he  does  not  feel 
it,  it  is  superfluous;  if  he  does,  it  is  unacceptable  to  him.  If 
reason  cannot  prevail,  reputation  may;  for  immoderate 
mourning  lessens  a  man's  character:  It  is  a  shameful  thing  for 
a  wise  man  to  make  the  weariness  of  grieving  the  remedy  of 
it.  In  time,  the  most  stubborn  grief  will  leave  us,  if  in  pru- 
dence we  do  not  leave  that  first. 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  205 

But  do  I  grieve  for  my  friend's  sake  or  for  my  own?     Why 

should    I    afflict    myself   for    the    loss    of   him 

that   is  either  happy  or  not   at   all  in   being?  ^^^  ?"^^'^  '"^^^^ 

T        1  '^    ■  J    •      ^u        ^u  for  OUT  own 

In  the  one  case  it  is  envy,  and  m  the  other       ,     ,t      . 

1  ITT  «\TTi  sakes  than  joT 

It    IS    madness.     We    are    apt    to    say,       What  our  friends 

would  I  give  to  see  him  again,  and  to  enjoy 
his  conversation!  I  was  never  sad  in  his  company:  my  heart 
leaped  whenever  I  met  him;  I  want  him  wherever  I  go." 
All  that  is  to  be  said  is,  "The  greater  the  loss,  the  greater  is 
the  virtue  to  overcome  it."  If  grieving  will  do  no  good,  it  is 
an  idle  thing  to  grieve;  and  if  that  which  has  befallen  one 
man  remains  to  all,  it  is  as  unjust  to  complain.  The  whole 
world  is  upon  the  march  towards  the  same  point;  why  do  we 
not  cry  for  ourselves  that  are  to  follow,  as  well  as  for  him 
that  has  gone  first?  Why  do  we  not  as  well  lament  before- 
hand for  that  which  we  know  will  be,  and  cannot  possibly 
but  be?  He  is  not  gone,  but  sent  before.  As  there  are  many 
things  that  he  has  lost,  so  there  are  many  things  that  he  does 
not  fear;  as  anger,  jealousy,  envy,  &c.  Is  he  not  more  hap- 
py in  desiring  nothing  than  miserable  in  what  he  has  lost? 
We  do  not  mourn  for  the  absent,  why  then  for  the  dead,  who 
are  effectually  no  other?  We  have  lost  one  blessing,  but  we 
have  many  left;  and  shall  not  all  these  satisfactions  support 
us  against  one  sorrow. 

The  comfort  of  having  a  friend  may  be  taken  away,  but 
not  that  of  having  had   one.     As  there  is   a 
sharpness   in  some   fruits,  and   a   bitterness   in    ^  friend  may 

some  wines  that  please  us,  so  there  is  a  mix-    ^/  ^^^^^  f^^^' 

,  ,  «     -  .       ,  ,  but  not  the 

ture    m    the    remembrance    ot    friends,    where    comfort  of  the 

the  loss  of  their  company  is  sweetened   again    friendship 

by   the   contemplation   of  their   virtues.        In 

some  respects  I  have  lost  what  I  had,  and  in  others  I  retain  still 

what  I  have  lost.     It  is  an  ill  construction  of  Providence  to 

reflect  only  upon  my  friend's  being  taken  away,  without  any 

regard   to   the   benefit  of  his   being  once   given  me.     Let   us 

therefore  make  the  best  of  our  friends  while  we  have  them; 

for  how  long  we  shall  keep  them  is  uncertain.     I  have  lost  a 

hopeful   son,   but  how  many   fathers   have   been   deceived   in 

their  expectations?    and  how  many  noble  families  have  been 

destroyed  by  luxury  and  riot?     He  that  grieves  for  the  loss  of  a 

son,  what  if  he  had  lost  a  friend?    and  yet  he  that  has  lost  a 

friend  has  more  cause  of  joy  that  he  once  had  him,   than 


2o6  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

of  grief  that  he  is  taken  away.  Shall  a  man  bury  his  friend- 
ship with  his  friend?  We  are  ungrateful  for  that  which  is  past, 
in  hope  of  what  is  to  come;  as  if  that  which  is  to  come 
would  not  quickly  be  past  too.  That  which  is  past,  we  are 
sure  of.  We  may  receive  satisfaction,  it  is  true,  both  from  the 
future  and  what  is  already  past;  the  one  by  expectation,  and 
the  other  by  memory;  only  the  one  may  possibly  not  come 
to  pass,  and  it  is  impossible  to  make  the  other  not  to 
have  been. 

But  there  is  no  applying  of  consolation  to  fresh  and  bleed- 
ing    sorrow;      the     very     discourse     irritates 
There  is  no  ^he  grief  and   inflames  it.     It   is  like  an  un- 

eaingwit  seasonable     medicine     in      a  disease;       when 

the  first  trans-  i         r  •    i  •  •  -n     i 

'ports  of  sorrow  ^"C  hrst  Violence  is  over,  it  will  be  more 
tractable,  and  endure  the  handling.  Those 
people  whose  minds  are  weakened  by  long  felicity  may  be 
allowed  to  groan  and  complain,  but  it  is  otherwise  with  those 
that  have  led  their  days  in  misfortunes.  A  long  course  of  ad- 
versity has  this  good  in  it,  that  though  it  vexes  a  body  a  great 
while,  it  comes  to  harden  us  at  last:  as  a  raw  soldier  shrinks 
at  every  wound,  and  dreads  the  surgeon  more  than  an  enemy; 
whereas  a  veteran  sees  his  own  body  cut  and  lamed  with  as 
little  concern  as  if  it  were  another's.  With  the  same  resolu- 
tion should  we  stand  the  shock  and  cure  of  all  misfortunes; 
we  are  never  the  better  for  our  experience,  if  we  have  not 
yet  learned  to  be  miserable.  And  there  is  no  thought  of 
curing  us  by  the  diversion  of  sports  and  entertainments;  we 
are  apt  to  fall  into  relapses;  wherefore  we  had  better  over- 
come our  sorrow  than  delude  it. 


CHAP.  XXIV 

Consolation  against  banishment  and  bodily  pain 

It  is  a  master-piece  to  draw  good  out  of  evil;  and,  by  the 
help  of  virtue,  to  improve  misfortunes  into  blessings.  "It  is 
a  sad  condition,"  you  will  say,  "for  a  man  to  be  barred 
the  freedom  of  his  own  country."  And  is  not  this  the  case 
of  thousands  that  we  meet  every  day  in  the  streets.?  Some 
for  ambition;    others,  to  negotiate,  or  for  curiosity,  delight. 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  207 

friendship,  study,  experience,  luxury,  vanity,  discontent: 
some  to  exercise  their  virtues,  others  their  vices;  and  not  a 
few  to  prostitute  either  their  bodies  or  their  eloquence?  To 
pass  now  from  pleasant  countries  into  the  worst  of  islands; 
let  them  be  never  so  barren  or  rocky,  the  people  never  so 
barbarous,  or  the  clime  never  so  intemperate,  he  that  is  ban- 
ished thither  shall  find  many  strangers  to  live  there  for  their 
pleasure.  The  mind  of  man  is  naturally  curious  and  restless; 
which  is  no  wonder,  considering  their  divine  original;  for 
heavenly  things  are  always  in  motion:  witness  the  stars,  and 
the  orbs,  which  are  perpetually  moving,  rolling,  and  chang- 
ing of  place,  and  according  to  the  law  and  appointment 
of  Nature.  But  here  are  no  woods,  you  will  say,  no  rivers, 
no  gold  nor  pearl,  no  commodity  for  traffic  or  commerce; 
nay,  hardly  provision  enough  to  keep  the  inhabitants  from 
starving.  It  is  very  right;  here  are  no  palaces,  no  artificial 
grottoes,  or  materials  for  luxury  and  excess;  but  we  lie  under 
the  protection  of  Heaven;  and  a  poor  cottage  for  a  retreat 
is  more  worth  than  the  most  magnificent  temple,  when  that 
cottage  is  consecrated  by  an  honest  man  under  the  guard  of 
his  virtue.  Shall  any  man  think  banishment  grievous,  when 
he  may  take  such  company  along  with  him?  Nor  is  there 
any  banishment  but  yields  enough  for  our  necessities,  and  no 
kingdom  is  sufficient  for  superfluities.  It  is  the  mind  that 
makes  us  rich  in  a  desart;  and  if  the  body  be  but  kept  alive, 
the  soul  enjoys  all  spiritual  felicities  in  abundance.  What  sig- 
nifies the  being  banished  from  one  spot  of  ground  to  another,  to 
a  man  that  has  his  thoughts  above  and  can  look  forward  and 
backward,  and  wherever  he  pleases;  and  that  wherever  he 
is,  has  the  same  matter  to  work  upon?  The  body  is  but  the 
prison  or  the  clog  of  the  mind,  subjected  to  punishments,  rob- 
beries, diseases;  but  the  mind  is  sacred  and  spiritual,  and 
liable  to  no  violence.  Is  it  that  a  man  shall  want  garments 
or  covering  in  banishment?  The  body  is  as  easily  clothed  as 
fed;  and  Nature  has  made  nothing  hard  that  is  necessary. 
But  if  nothing  will  serve  us  but  rich  embroideries  and  scarlet, 
it  is  none  of  Fortune's  fault  that  we  are  poor,  but  our  own. 
Nay,  suppose  a  man  should  have  all  restored  him  back  again 
that  he  has  lost,  it  will  come  to  nothing,  for  he  will  want 
more  after  that  to  satisfy  his  desires  than  he  did  before  to 
supply  his  necessities.  Insatiable  appetites  are  not  so  much 
athirst  as  a  disease. 

To  come  lower  now;    where  is  the  people  or  nation  that 


2o8  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

„    .  ,         .  have  not  changed  their  place  of  abode?     Some 

hut  change  of  ^Y  ^^^  ^^^^  ^^  vfTiXy  Others  have  been  cast  by 

flace,  in  which  tempests,    shipwrecks,   or  want   of  provisions, 

sense  all  people  upon  unknown  coasts.     Some  have  been  forced 

and  nations  have  abroad    by    pestilence,    sedition,    earthquakes, 

been  banished  ,  c  i        ^  i  c  i 

surcharge  or  people  at  home,  borne  travel  to 
see  the  world,  others  for  commerce;  but,  in  fine,  it  is 
clear,  that,  upon  some  reason  or  other,  the  whole  race  of 
mankind  have  shifted  their  quarters;  changed  their  very 
names  as  well  as  their  habitations;  insomuch  that  we 
have  lost  the  very  memorials  of  what  they  were.  All  these 
transportations  of  people,  what  are  they  but  public  banish- 
ments .f*  The  very  founder  of  the  Roman  empire  was  an 
exile:  briefly,  the  whole  world  has  been  transplanted,  and 
one  mutation  treads  upon  the  heel  of  another.  That  which 
one  man  desires,  turns  another  man's  stomach;  and  he  that 
proscribes  me  to-day,  shall  himself  be  cast  out  to-morrow. 
We  have,  however,  this  comfort  in  our  misfortune;  we  have 
the  same  nature,  the  same  Providence,  and  we  carry  our 
virtues  along  with  us.  And  this  blessing  we  owe  to  that 
almighty  Power,  call  it  what  you  will;  either  a  God,  or  an 
Incorporeal  Reason,  a  Divine  Spirit,  or  Fate,  and  the  un- 
changeable Course  of  causes  and  efects:  it  is,  however,  so 
ordered,  that  nothing  can  be  taken  from  us  but  what  we 
can  well  spare:  and  that  which  is  most  magnificent  and  va- 
luable continues  with  us.  Wherever  we  go,  we  have  the 
heavens  over  our  heads,  and  no  farther  from  us  than  they 
were  before;  and  so  long  as  we  can  entertain  our  eyes  and 
thoughts  with  those  glories,  what  matter  is  it  what  ground  we 
tread  upon? 

In  the  case  of  pain  or  sickness,  it  is  only  the  body  that  is 

aflPected;  it  may  take  oflf  the  speed  of  a  foot- 
Pain  only  aj-        ^^^^  ^^  ^ind  the  hands  of  a  cobbler,  but  the 

iects  the  body,  .,..,,,.,  ,  ,  , 

not  the  mind  "^^""  ^^  ^^"'  ^^  hberty  to  hear,  learn,  teach, 

advise,  and  to  do  other  good  offices.  It  is 
an  example  of  public  benefit,  a  man  that  is  in  pain  and  patient. 
Virtue  may  show  itself  as  well  in  the  bed  as  in  the  field;  and 
he  that  cheerfully  encounters  the  terrors  of  death  and  corporal 
anguish,  is  as  great  a  man  as  he  that  most  generously  hazards 
himself  in  a  battle.  A  disease,  it  is  true,  bars  us  of  some 
pleasures,  but  procures  us  others.  Drink  is  never  so  grateful 
to  us  as  in  a  burning  fever;  nor  meat,  as  when  we  have  fast- 
ed ourselves  sharp  and  hungry.     The  patient  may  be  forbid- 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  209 

den  some  sensual  satisfaction,  but  no  physician  will  forbid  us 
the  delight  of  the  mind.  Shall  we  call  any  sick  man  miser- 
able, because  he  must  give  over  his  intemperance  of  wine 
and  gluttony,  and  betake  himself  to  a  diet  of  more  sobriety, 
and  less  expense;  and  abandon  his  luxury,  which  is  the  dis- 
temper of  the  mind  as  well  as  of  the  body?  It  is  troublesome, 
I  know,  at  first,  to  abstain  from  the  pleasures  we  have  been 
used  to,  and  to  endure  hunger  and  thirst;  but  in  a  little  time 
we  lose  the  very  appetite,  and  it  is  no  trouble  then  to  be  with- 
out that  which  we  do  not  desire.  In  diseases  there  are  great 
pains;  but  if  they  be  long  they  remit,  and  give  us  some  inter- 
vals of  ease;  if  short  and  violent,  either  they  dispatch  us,  or 
consume  themselves;  so  that  either  their  respites  make  them 
tolerable,  or  the  extremity  makes  them  short.  So  merciful 
is  Almighty  God  to  us,  that  our  torments  cannot  be  very 
sharp  and  lasting.  The  acutest  pains  are  those  that  affect  the 
nerves,  but  there  is  this  comfort  in  them  too,  that  they  will 
quickly  make  us  stupid  and  insensible.  In  cases  of  extremity, 
let  us  call  to  mind  the  most  eminent  instances  of  patience  and 
courage,  and  turn  our  thoughts  from  our  afflictions  to  the 
contemplation  of  virtue.  Suppose  it  be  the  stone,  the  gout, 
nay,  the  rack  itself;  how  many  have  endured  it  without  so 
much  as  a  groan  or  word  speaking;  without  so  much  as  ask- 
ing for  relief,  or  giving  an  answer  to  a  question?  Nay,  they 
have  laughed  at  the  tormentors  upon  the  very  torture,  and 
provoked  them  to  new  experiments  of  their  cruelty,  which 
they  have  had  still  in  derision.  The  asthma  I  look  upon  as  of 
all  diseases  the  most  importunate;  the  physicians  call  it  the 
meditation  oj  death,  as  being  rather  an  agony  than  a  sickness: 
the  fit  holds  one  not  above  an  hour,  as  nobody  is  long  in  ex- 
piring. Are  there  not  three  things  grievous  in  sickness,  the 
fear  of  death,  bodily  pain,  and  the  intermission  of  our  plea- 
sures? the  first  is  to  be  imputed  to  nature,  not  to  the  disease; 
for  we  do  not  die  because  we  are  sick,  but  because  we  live. 
Nay,  sickness  itself  has  preserved  many  a  man  from  dying. 


210  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

CHAP.   XXV 

Poverty  to  a  wise  man  is  rather  a  blessing  than  a 
misfortune 

No  man  shall  ever  be  poor  that  goes  to  himself  for  what  he 
wants;  and  that  is  the  readiest  way  to  riches.  Nature,  in- 
deed, will  have  her  due;  but  yet  whatsoever  is  beyond  ne- 
cessity is  precarious,  and  not  necessary.  It  is  not  her  business 
to  gratify  the  palate,  but  to  satisfy  a  craving  stomach.  Bread, 
when  a  man  is  hungry,  does  his  work,  let  it  be  never  so 
coarse;  and  water  when  he  is  dry;  let  his  thirst  be  quenched, 
and  Nature  is  satisfied,  no  matter  whence  it  comes,  or 
whether  he  drinks  in  gold,  silver,  or  in  the  hollow  of  his 
hand.  To  promise  a  man  riches,  and  to  teach  him  poverty, 
is  to  deceive  him:  but  shall  I  call  him  poor  that  wants  no- 
thing; though  he  may  be  beholden  for  it  to  his  patience  ra- 
ther than  to  his  fortune?  Or  shall  any  man  deny  him  to  be 
rich,  whose  riches  can  never  be  taken  away.  Whether  is  it 
better  to  have  much  or  enough?  He  that  has  much  desires 
more,  which  shows  that  he  has  not  yet  enough;  but  he  that 
has  enough  is  at  rest.  Shall  a  man  be  reputed  the  less  rich 
for  not  having  that  for  which  he  shall  be  banished;  for  which 
his  very  wife,  or  son,  shall  poison  him:  that  which  gives 
him  security  in  war,  and  quiet  in  peace;  which  he  possesses 
without  danger,  and  disposes  of  without  trouble?  No  man 
can  be  poor  that  has  enough;  nor  rich,  that  covets  more 
than  he  has.  Alexander,  after  all  his  conquests,  complained 
that  he  wanted  more  worlds;  he  desired  something  more, 
even  when  he  had  gotten  all:  and  that  which  was  sufficient 
for  human  nature  was  not  enough  for  one  man.  Money 
never  made  any  man  rich;  for  the  more  he  had  the  more  he 
still  coveted.  The  richest  man  that  ever  lived  is  poor  in  my 
opinion,  and  in  any  man's  may  be  so:  but  he  that  keeps  him- 
self to  the  stint  of  Nature,  does  neither  feel  poverty  nor  fear 
it;  nay,  even  in  poverty  itself  there  are  some  things  super- 
fluous. Those  which  the  world  calls  happy,  their  felicity  is 
a  false  splendour,  that  dazzles  the  eyes  of  the  vulgar;  but 
our  rich  man  is  glorious  and  happy  within.  There  is  no  am- 
bition in  hunger  or  thirst:  let  there  be  food,  and  no  matter 
for  the  table,  the  dish,  and  the  servants,  nor  with  what 
meats  nature  is  satisfied.  Those  are  the  torments  of  luxury, 
that  rather  stuff  the  stomach  than  fill  it:   it  studies  rather  to 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  211 

cause  an  appetite  than  to  allay  it.  It  is  not  for  us  to  say, 
"This  is  not  handsome;  that  is  common;  the  other  offends 
my  eye."  Nature  provides  for  health,  not  delicacy.  When 
the  trumpet  sounds  a  charge,  the  poor  man  knows  that  he  is 
not  aimed  at;  when  they  cry  out  fire,  his  body  is  all  he  has 
to  look  after:  if  he  be  to  take  a  journey,  there  is  no  blocking 
up  of  streets,  and  thronging  of  passages  for  a  parting  com- 
pHment:  a  small  matter  fills  his  belly,  and  contents  his  mind, 
he  lives  from  hand  to  mouth,  without  caring  or  fearing  for  to- 
morrow. The  temperate  rich  man  is  but  his  counterfeit;  his 
wit  is  quicker  and  his  appetite  calmer. 

lNo  man  finds  poverty  a  trouble  to  him,  but  he  that  thinks  it 
so;     and    he   that   thinks   it   so,   makes   it   so. 
Does  not  a  rich  man  travel  more  at  ease  with    P^'^^^^y  ^^  °'^}y 

II  ,     r  3      TA  1         troublesome  m 

less    luggage,    and    lewer    servants  1^     Uoes    he    ^.-  •„ 

too   to  7        _  ,.     1  ,  •        Opinion 

not  eat  many  times  as  little  and  as  coarse  in 

the  field  as  a  poor  man?  Does  he  not,  for  his  own  pleasure, 
sometimes,  and  for  variety,  feed  upon  the  ground,  and  use 
only  earthen  vessels.''  Is  not  he  a  madman  then,  that  always 
fears  what  he  often  desires,  and  dreads  the  thing  that  he  takes 
delight  to  imitate:  he  that  would  know  the  worst  of  poverty, 
let  him  but  compare  the  looks  of  the  rich  and  of  the  poor, 
and  he  shall  find  the  poor  man  to  have  a  smoother  brow,  and 
to  be  more  merry  at  heart;  or  if  any  trouble  befals  him,  it 
passes  over  like  a  cloud:  whereas  the  other,  either  his  good 
humour  is  counterfeit,  or  his  melancholy  deep  and  ulcerated, 
and  the  worse,  because  he  dares  not  publicly  own  his  mis- 
fortune; but  he  is  forced  to  play  the  part  of  a  happy  man 
even  with  a  cancer  in  his  heart.  His  felicity  is  but  per- 
sonated; and  if  he  were  but  stripped  of  his  ornaments,  he 
would  be  contemptible.  In  buying  of  a  horse,  we  take  oflF 
his  clothes,  and  his  trappings,  and  examine  his  shape  and 
body  for  fear  of  being  cozened;  and  shall  we  put  an  estimate 
upon  a  man  for  being  set  off  by  his  fortune  and  quality? 
Nay,  if  we  see  any  thing  of  ornament  about  him,  we  are  to 
suspect  him  the  more  for  some  infirmity  under  it.  He  that  is 
not  content  in  poverty,  would  not  be  so  neither  in  plenty;  for 
the  fault  is  not  in  the  thing,  but  in  the  mind.  If  that  be  sickly, 
remove  him  from  a  kennel  to  a  palace,  he  is  at  the  same  pass; 
for  he  carries  his  disease  along  with  him.  What  can  be  hap- 
pier than  that  condition,  both  of  mind  and  of  fortune,  from 
which  we  cannot  fall?  What  can  be  a  greater  felicity  than, 
in  a  covetous  designing  age,  for  a  man  to  live  safe  among  in- 


212  SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

formers  and  thieves?  It  puts  a  poor  man  into  the  very  con- 
dition of  Providence  that  gives  all,  without  reserving  any 
thing  to  itself.  How  happy  is  he  that  owes  nothing  but  to 
himself,  and  only  that  which  he  can  easily  refuse  or  easily 
pay!  I  do  not  reckon  him  poor  that  has  but  a  little,  but  he  is 
so  that  covets  more;  it  is  a  fair  degree  of  plenty  to  have  what 
is  necessary.  Whether  had  a  man  better  find  saturiety  in 
want,  or  hunger  in  plenty?  It  is  not  the  augmenting  of  our 
fortunes,  but  the  abating  of  our  appetites,  that  makes  us  rich. 
Why  may  not  a  man  as  well  contemn  riches  in  his  own  cof- 
fers as  in  another  man's;  and  rather  hear  that  they  are  his, 
than  feel  them  to  be  so?  though  it  is  a  great  matter  not  to 
be  corrupted,  even  by  having  them  under  the  same  roof.  He 
is  the  greater  man  that  is  honestly  poor  in  the  middle  of  plen- 
ty; but  he  is  the  more  secure  that  is  free  from  the  temptation 
of  that  plenty,  and  has  the  least  matter  for  another  to  design 
upon.  It  is  no  great  business  for  a  poor  man  to  preach  the 
contempt  of  riches,  or  for  a  rich  man  to  extol  the  benefits  of 
poverty,  because  we  do  not  know  how  either  the  one  or  the 
other  would  behave  himself  in  the  contrary  condition.  The 
best  proof  is,  the  doing  of  it  by  choice,  and  hot  by  necessity; 
for  the  practice  of  poverty  in  jest  is  a  preparation  toward  the 
bearing  of  it  in  earnest.  But  it  is  yet  a  generous  disposition 
so  to  provide  for  the  worst  of  fortunes  as  what  may  be  easily 
borne:  the  premeditation  makes  them  not  only  tolerable,  but 
delightful  to  us;  for  there  is  that  in  them,  without  which  no- 
thing can  be  comfortable,  that  is  to  say,  security.  If  there 
were  nothing  else  in  poverty  but  the  certain  knowledge  of  our 
friends,  it  were  yet  a  most  desirable  blessing,  when  every 
man  leaves  us  but  those  that  love  us.  It  is  a  shame  to  place 
the  happiness  of  life  in  gold  and  silver,  for  which  bread  and 
water  is  sufficient;  or,  at  the  worst,  hunger  puts  an  end  to 
hunger.  For  the  honour  of  poverty,  it  was  both  the  foun- 
dation and  the  cause  of  the  Roman  empire;  and  no  man  was 
ever  yet  so  poor  but  he  had  enough  to  carry  him  to  his  jour- 
ney's end. 

All  I  desire  is,  that  my  poverty  may  not  be  a  burden  to  my- 
self,   or    make    me    so    to    others;     and    that 
Mediocrity  is         jg   ^j^g   j^gg^   g^^^g   q(  fortune,   that   is   neither 
the  best  state  of         -,■         ■,  •  c  c  '^        \ 

fortune  directly     necessitous,     nor     tar     trom     it.     A 

mediocrity  of  fortune,  with  a  gentleness 
of  mind,  will  preserve  us  from  fear  or  envy;  which  is  a  de- 
sirable condition,  for  no  man  wants  power  to  do  mischief. 


SENECA  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE  213 

We  never  consider  the  blessing  of  coveting  nothing,  and  the 
glory  of  being  full  in  ourselves,  without  depending  upon  For- 
tune. With  parsimony,  a  little  is  sufficient;  and  without  it 
nothing;  whereas  frugality  makes  a  poor  man  rich.  If  we 
lose  an  estate,  we  had  better  never  have  had  it:  he  that  has 
least  to  lose  has  least  to  fear;  and  those  are  better  satisfied 
whom  Fortune  never  favoured  than  those  whom  she  has  for- 
saken. The  state  is  most  commodious  that  lies  betwixt  po- 
verty and  plenty.  Diogenes  understood  this  very  well,  when 
he  put  himself  into  an  incapacity  of  losing  any  thing.  That 
course  of  life  is  most  commodious  which  is  both  safe  and 
wholesome;  the  body  is  to  be  indulged  no  farther  than  for 
health;  and  rather  mortified  than  not  kept  in  subjection  to 
the  mind.  It  is  necessary  to  provide  against  hunger,  thirst, 
and  cold;  and  somewhat  for  a  covering  to  shelter  us  against 
other  inconviences;  but  not  a  pin-matter  whether  it  be  of 
turf  or  of  marble.  A  man  may  lie  as  warm  and  as  dry  under 
a  thatched  as  under  a  gilded  roof.  Let  the  mind  be  great  and 
glorious,  and  all  other  things  are  despicable  in  comparison. 
"The  future  is  uncertain;  and  I  had  rather  beg  of  myself  not 
to  desire  any  thing,  than  of  Fortune  to  bestow  it." 


SENECA  OF  ANGER. 


CHAP.  I. 

Angpr  deicribed ;  it  is  against  nalure,  and  only  to  he  found  in 
man. 

W  E  are  here  to  encounter  tKe  most  outrageous,  brutal, 
dangerous,  and  intractable  of  all  passions ;  the  most  loth- 
some  and  unmannerly ;  nay,  the  most  ridiculous  too  ;  and 
the  subduing  of  tliis  monster  will  do  a  great  deal  toward  the 
establishment  of  human  peace.  It  is  the  method  of  fhy" 
sicians  to  begin  with  a  description  of  the  disease,  before  they 
meddle  with  the  cure :  and  1  know  not  why  this  may  not  do 
as  well  in  the  distempers  of  the  mind  as  in  those  of  the  body. 

The  Stoics  will  have  anger  to  be  a  "  desire  of  punishing" 
Aizer  described  ^"ot'ier  for  some  injury  done."  Against 
what  it  is  '    which  it  is  objected,  that  we  are  many 

times  angry  with  those  that  never  did  hu^ 
us>  but  possibly  may,  though  the  harm  be  not  as  yet  done. 
But  I  say,  that  they  hurt  us  already  in  conceit :  and  the  very 
purpose  of  it  is  an  injury  in  thought  before  it  breaks  out  into 
act.  It  is  opposed  again,  that  if  anger  were  a  denre  ofp.u- 
trisking,  mean  people  would  not  be  angry  with  great  ones 
that  are  out  of  their  reach  ;  for  no  man  can  be  said  to  desire 
any  thing  which  he  judges  impossible  to  compass.  But  I  an- 
swer to  this,  That  anger  is  the  desire,  not  the  ;;o«;er  and/a- 
cully  of  revenge :  neither  is  any  man  so  low,  but  that  the 
greatest  man  alive  may  peradventure  lie  at  his  mercy. 

Aristotle  takes  anger  to  be,  "  a  desire  of  paying  sorrow  for 
sorrow;"  and  of  plaguing  those  that  have  plagued  us.  It  is 
argued  against  both,  that  beasts  are  angry ;  though  neither 
provoked  by  any  injury,  nor  moved  with  a  desire  of  any 
body's  grief  or  punishment.  Nay,  though  they  cause  it,  they 
do  not  design  or  seek  it.  Neither  is  anger  (how  unreasonable 
soever  in  itself)  found  any  where  but  in  reasonable  creatures. 


SENECA    OF    ANGER 


CHAP.   I 

Anger  described;  it  is  against  nature,  and  only  to  be 
found  in  man 


W= 


E  are  here  to  encounter  the  most  outrageous,  brutal, 
dangerous,  and  intractable  of  all  passions;  the  most  loth- 
some  and  unmannerly;  nay,  the  most  ridiculous  too;  and 
the  subduing  of  this  monster  will  do  a  great  deal  toward  the 
establishment  of  human  peace.  It  is  the  method  of  phy- 
sicians to  begin  with  a  description  of  the  disease,  before  they 
meddle  with  the  cure:  and  I  know  not  why  this  may  not  do 
as  well  in  the  distempers  of  the  mind  as  in  those  of  the  body. 

The   Stoics  will   have  anger  to   be   a   "desire  of  punishing 
another     for     some     injury     done."     Against 
which    it    is    objected,    that    we    are    many    il^' ^^l"'^'^' 
times   angry  with    those    that  never  did    hurt 
us,  but  possibly  may,  though  the  harm  be  not  as  yet  done. 
But  I  say,  that  they  hurt  us  already  in  conceit:    and  the  very 
purpose  of  it  is  an  injury  in  thought  before  it  breaks  out  into 
act.     It  is  opposed  again,  that  if  anger  were  a  desire  of  pu- 
nishing, mean   people   would   not    be   angry  with   great   ones 
that  are  out  of  their  reach;    for  no  man  can  be  said  to  desire 
any  thing  which  he  judges  impossible  to  compass.     But  I  an- 
swer to  this.  That  anger  is  the  desire,  not  the  power  and  fa- 
culty  of  revenge:  neither  is   any   man   s^   low,    but   that   the 
greatest  man  alive  may  peradventure  lie  at  his  mercy. 

Aristotle  takes  anger  to  be,  "a  desire  of  paying  sorrow  for 
sorrow;"  and  of  plaguing  those  that  have  plagued  us.  It  is 
argued  against  both,  that  beasts  are  angry;  though  neither 
provoked  by  any  injury,  nor  moved  with  a  desire  of  any 
body's  grief  or  punishment.  Nay,  though  they  cause  it,  they 
do  not  design  or  seek  it.  Neither  is  anger  (how  unreasonable 
soever  in  itself)  found  any  where  but  in  reasonable  creatures. 


2i6  SENECA  OF  ANGER 

It  is  true,  the  beasts  have  an  impulse  of  rage  and  fierceness; 
as  they  are  nore  affected  also  than  men  with  some  pleasure; 
but  we  may  as  well  call  them  luxurious  and  ambitious  as  an- 
gry. And  yet  they  are  not  without  certain  images  of  human 
affections.  They  have  their  likings  and  their  lothings;  but 
neither  the  passions  of  reasonable  nature,  nor  their  virtues, 
nor  their  vices.  They  are  moved  to  fury  by  some  objects; 
they  are  quieted  by  others;  they  have  their  terrors  and  their 
disappointments,  but  without  reflection:  and  let  them  be 
never  so  much  irritated  or  affrighted,  so  soon  as  ever  the  oc- 
casion is  removed  they  fall  to  their  meat  again,  and  lie  down 
and  take  their  rest.  Wisdom  and  thought  are  the  goods  of 
the  mind,  whereof  brutes  are  wholly  incapable;  and  we  are 
as  unlike  them  within  as  we  are  without:  they  have  an  odd 
kind  of  fancy,  and  they  have  a  voice  too;  but  inarticulate 
and  confused,  and  incapable  of  those  variations  which  are 
familiar  to  us. 

Anger  is  not  only  a  vice,  but  a  vice  point-blank  against  na- 
ture, for  it  divides  instead  of  joining;    and  in 

^"^  «s<2i«-f^  some    measure,    frustrates    the    end    of   Provi- 

fldttlTS  • 

dence  in  human  society.  One  man  was  born 
to  help  another:  anger  makes  us  destroy  one  another;  the 
one  unites,  the  other  separates;  the  one  is  beneficial  to  us, 
the  other  mischievous;  the  one  succours  even  strangers,  the 
other  destroys  even  the  most  intimate  friends;  the  one  ven- 
tures all  to  save  another,  the  other  ruins  himself  to  undo 
another.  Nature  is  bountiful,  but  anger  is  pernicious:  for  it 
is  not  fear,  but  mutual  love  that  binds  up  mankind. 

There  are  some  motions  that  look  like  anger,  which  cannot 
properly  be  called  so;  as  the  passion  of  the  people  against 
the  gladiators,  when  they  hang  off,  and  will  not  make  so 
quick  a  dispatch  as  the  spectators  would  have  them:  there  is 
something  in  it  of  the  humour  of  children,  that  if  they  get  a 
fall,  will  never  leave  bawling  until  the  naughty  ground  is 
beaten,  and  then  all  is  well  again.  They  are  angry  without 
any  cause  or  injury;  they  are  deluded  by  an  imitation  of 
strokes,  and  pacified  with  counterfeit  tears.  A  false  and  a 
childish  sorrow  is  appeased  with  as  false  and  as  childish  a  re- 
venge. They  take  it  for  a  contempt,  if  the  gladiators  do  not 
immediately  cast  themselves  upon  the  sword's  point.  They 
look  presently  about  them  from  one  to  another,  as  who 
should  say;  "Do  but  see,  my  masters,  how  these  rogues 
abuse  us." 


SENECA  OF  ANGER  217 

To  descend  to  the  particular  branches  and  varieties  would 
be  unnecessary  and  endless.     There  is  a  stub- 
born, a  vindictive,  a  quarrelsome,  a  violent,  a    ^f^'^''^^  ■^°'"^^ 
rroward,    a    sullen,    a    morose    kmd    or    anger: 
and  then  we  have  this  variety  in  complication  too.     One  goes 
no    farther    than    words,    another    proceeds    immediately    to 
blows,  without  a  word  speaking;    a  third  sort  breaks  out  into 
cursing  and  reproachful  language:    and  there  are  that  content 
themselves  with    chiding  and   complaining.     There  is   a  con- 
filiable  anger,  and  there  is  an  implacable;    but  in  what  form 
or  degree  soever  it  appears,  all  anger,  without  exception,  is 
vicious. 


CHAP.   II 

The  rise  of  anger 

The  question  will  be  here,  whether  anger  takes  its  rise 
from  impulse  or  judgment?  that  is,  whether  it  be  moved  of 
its  own  accord,  or,  as  many  other  things  are,  from  within  us, 
that  arise  we  know  not  how?  The  clearing  of  this  point,  will 
lead  us  to  greater  matters. 

The  first  motion  of  anger  is  in  truth,  involuntary,  and  only 
a   kind    of  menacing    preparation   towards    it. 

The    second   deliberates;    as   who   should    say,    '^^'^^  fi^^^  ^°' 
j<T-,,  .      .    .  Ill  -I  tion  of  anger 

Ihis  mjury  should  not  pass  without  a  re- 
venge;" and  there  it  stops.  The  third^  is  impotent;  and  right 
or  wrong,  resolves  upon  vengeance.  The  first  motion  is  not 
to  be  avoided,  nor  indeed  the  second,  any  more  than  yawning 
for  company:  custom  and  care  may  lessen  it,  but  reason  it- 
self cannot  overcome  it.  The  third,  as  it  rises  upon  con- 
sideration, it  must  fall  so  too;  for  that  motion  which  pro- 
ceeds with  judgment  may  be  taken  away  with  judgment.  A 
man  thinks  himself  injured,  and  hath  a  mind  to  be  revenged, 
but  for  some  reason  lets  it  rest.  This  is  not  properly  anger, 
but  an  affection  over-ruled  by  reason;  a  kind  of  proposal  dis- 
approved. And  what  are  reason  and  affection,  but  only 
changes  of  the  mind  for  the  better  or  for  the  worse?  Reason 
deliberates  before  it  judges;  but  anger  passes  sentence  with- 
out deliberation.  Reason  only  attends  the  matter  in  hand; 
but  anger  is  startled  at  every  accident:  it  passes  the  bounds 


2i8  SENECA  OF  ANGER 

of  reason,  and  carries  it  away  with  it.  In  short,  "anger  is 
an  agitation  of  the  mind  that  proceeds  to  the  resolution  of  a 
revenge,  the  mind  assenting  to  it."  There  is  no  doubt  but 
anger  is  moved  by  the  species  of  an  injury,  but  whether  that 
motion  be  voluntary  or  involuntary,  is  the  point  in  debate; 
though  it  seems  manifest  to  me  that  anger  does  nothing  but 
where  the  mind  goes  along  with  it.  For,  first,  to  take  an 
oiFence,  and  then  to  meditate  a  revenge,  and  after  that,  to  lay 
both  propositions  together,  and  say  to  myself,  "This  injury 
ought  not  to  have  been  done;  but,  as  the  case  stands,  I  must 
do  myself  right."  This  discourse  can  never  proceed  with- 
out the  concurrence  of  the  will.  The  first  motion  indeed,  is 
single;  but  all  the  rest  is  deliberation  and  superstructure: 
there  is  something  understood  and  condemned:  an  indigna- 
tion conceived,  and  a  revenge  propounded.  This  can  never 
be  without  the  agreement  of  the  mind  to  the  matter  in  de- 
liberation. The  end  of  this  question  is,  to  know  the  nature 
and  quality  of  anger.  If  it  be  bred  in  us,  it  will  never  yield 
to  reason,  for  all  involuntary  motions  are  inevitable  and  in- 
vincible; as  a  kind  of  horror  and  shrugging  upon  the  sprink- 
ling of  cold  water;  the  hair  standing  on  end  at  ill  news; 
giddiness  at  the  sight  of  a  precipice;  blushing  at  lewd  dis- 
course. In  these  cases,  reason  can  do  no  good;  but  anger 
may  undoubtedly  be  overcome  by  caution  and  good  counsel; 
for  it  is  a  voluntary  vice,  and  not  of  the  condition  of  those 
accidents  that  befal  is  as  frailties  of  our  humanity:  amongst 
which  must  be  reckoned  the  first  motions  of  the  mind,  after 
the  opinion  of  an  injury  received,  which  it  is  not  in  the 
power  of  human  nature  to  avoid:  and  this  is  it  that  affects  us 
upon  the  stage,  or  in  a  story.  Can  any  man  read  the  death 
of  Pompey,  and  not  be  touched  with  an  indignation?  The 
sound  of  a  trumpet  rouses  the  spirits,  and  provokes  courage. 
It  makes  a  man  sad  to  see  the  shipwreck  even  of  an  enemy; 
and  we  are  much  surprised  by  fear  in  other  cases:  all  these 
motions  are  not  so  much  affections  as  preludes  to  them. 
The  clashing  of  arms,  or  the  beating  of  a  drum,  excites  a 
war-horse:  nay,  a  song  from  Xenophantes  would  make  Alex- 
ander take  his  sword  in  his  hand.  In  all  these  cases,  the 
mind  rather  suffers  than  acts;  and  therefore  it  is  not  an  af- 
fection to  he  moved,  but  to  give  way  to  that  motion,  and  to 
follow  willingly  what  was  started  by  chance.  These  are  not 
affections,  but  impulses  of  the  body.  The  bravest  man  in 
the  world  may  look  pale  when  he  puts  on  his  armour,  his 


SENECA  OF   ANGER  219 

knees  knock,  and  his  heart  work  before  the  battle  is  joined: 
but  these  are  only  motions:  whereas  anger  is  an  excursion, 
and  proposes  revenge  or  punishment,  which  cannot  be  with- 
out the  mind.  As  fear  flies,  so  anger  assaults;  and  it  is  not 
possible  to  resolve,  either  upon  violence  or  caution,  without 
the  concurrence  of  the  will. 


CHAP.   Ill 

Anger  may  be  suppressed 

It  is  an  idle  thing  to  pretend  that  we  cannot  govern  our 
anger;  for  some  things  that  we  do  are  much  harder  than 
others  that  we  ought  to  do;  the  wildest  affections  may  be 
tamed  by  discipline,  and  there  is  hardly  any  thing  which  the 
mind  will  do  but  it  may  do.  There  needs  no  more  argument 
in  this  case  than  the  instances  of  several  persons,  both  pow- 
erful and  impatient,  that  have  gotten  the  absolute  mastery  of 
themselves  in  this  point, 

Thrasippus  in  his  drink  fell  foul  upon  the  cruelties  of  Pisis- 
tratus;     who,    when    he   was    urged    by    seve- 
ral  about  him   to  make   an   example  of  him,    P'^'f^^'  '^^'• 
1       1  •  «Ti7i  111      T     1        ^^'■^"     "'''^    anger 

returned    this    answer,       Why    should    1     be 

angry  with  a  man  that  stumbles  upon  me  blindfold.?"  In  ef- 
fect most  of  our  quarrels  are  of  our  own  making,  either  by 
mistake  or  by  aggravation.  Anger  comes  sometimes  upon 
us,  but  we  go  oftener  to  it,  and  instead  of  rejecting  it  we  call 
it. 

Augustus  was  a  great  master  of  his  passion:   for  Timagenus, 
an  historian,  wrote  several  bitter  things  against 

his    person     and    his    family;     which     passed    '^i^ ,  ^^^^^^^^^^ 

'^       ,  11-11  1  •  V  Augustus 

among  the  people  plausibly  enough,  as  pieces 

of  rash  wit  commonly  do.  Caesar  advised  him  several  times 
to  forbear;  and  when  that  would  not  do,  forbade  him  his 
roof.  After  this,  Asinius  Pollio  gave  him  entertainment;  and 
he  was  so  well  beloved  in  the  city,  that  every  man's  house 
was  open  to  him.  Those  things  that  he  had  written  in  hon- 
our of  Augustus,  he  recited  and  burnt,  and  publicly  professed 
himself  Caesar's  enemy.  Augustus,  for  all  this,  never  fell  out 
with  any  man  that  received   him;    only  once,  he  told   Pollio, 


220  SENECA  OF  ANGER 

that  he  had  taken  a  snake  into  his  bosom:  and  as  PoUio  was 
about  to  excuse  himself;  "No,"  says  Caesar,  interrupting 
him,  "make  your  best  of  him."  And  offering  to  cast  him  off 
at  that  very  moment,  if  Caesar  pleased:  "Do  you  think," 
says  Caesar,  "that  I  will  ever  contribute  to  the  parting  of 
you,  that  made  you  friends?"  for  PoUio  was  angry  with  him 
before,  and  only  entertained  him  now  because  Caesar  had  dis- 
carded him. 

The  moderation   of  Antigonus  was  remarkable.     Some  of 

^,         ,  his    soldiers    were    railing    at    him    one    night, 

The  moderation  i  ^i  u    ^  i  •  i  • 

of  Antigonus  '^"^^^     ^"^^.^    ^^^     ^^^     ^     hangmg     betwixt 

them.  Antigonus  overheard  them,  and 
putting  it  gently  aside;  "Soldiers,"  says  he,  "stand  a  little 
farther  off,  for  fear  the  king  should  hear  you."  And  we  are 
to  consider,  not  only  violent  examples,  but  moderate,  where 
there  wanted  neither  cause  of  displeasure  nor  power  of  re- 
venge: As  in  the  case  of  Antigonus,  who  the  same  night 
hearing  his  soldiers  cursing  him  for  bringing  them  into  so  foul 
a  way,  he  went  to  them,  and  without  telling  them  who  he 
was  helped  them  out  of  it.  "Now,"  says  he,  "you  may 
be  allowed  to  curse  him  that  brought  you  into  the  mire,  pro- 
vided you  bless  him  that  took  you  out  of  it." 

It  was  a  notable  story  that  of  Vedius  Pallio,  upon  his  invit- 
ing    of    Augustus     to     supper.     One     of    his 
A  predominant      ^  happened    to    break    a    glass:    and    his 

ans,er  master,    in    a    rage,    commanded    him    to    be 

thrown  in  a  pond  to  feed  his  lampreys. 
This  action  of  his  might  be  taken  for  luxury,  though,  in  truth, 
it  was  cruelty.  The  boy  was  seized,  but  brake  loose  and 
threw  himself  at  Augustus's  feet,  only  desiring  that  he  might 
not  die  that  death.  Caesar,  in  abhorrence  of  the  barbarity, 
presently  ordered  all  the  rest  of  the  glasses  to  be  broken,  the 
boy  to  be  released,  and  the  pond  to  be  filled  up,  that  there 
might  be  no  farther  occasion  for  an  inhumanity  of  that  na- 
ture. This  was  an  authority  well  employed.  Shall  the 
breaking  of  a  glass  cost  a  man  his  life?  Nothing  but  a  pre- 
dominant fear  could  ever  have  mastered  his  choleric  and  san- 
guinary disposition.  This  man  deserved  to  die  a  thousand 
deaths,  either  for  eating  human  flesh  at  second  hand  in  his 
lampreys,  or  for  keeping  of  his  fish  to  be  so  fed. 

It  is  written  of  Praexaspes  (a  favourite  of  Cambyses,  who 
was  much  given  to  wine)  that  he  took  the  freedom  to  tell  his 


SENECA  OF  ANGER  221 

prince  of  his  hard  drinking,  and  to  lay  before  him  the  scan- 
dal and  the  inconviences  of  his  excesses;  and  how  that, 
in  those  distempers,  he  had  not  the  command  of  himself. 
"Now,"  says  Cambyses,  "to  show  you  your  mistake,  you 
shall  see  me  drink  deeper  than  ever  I  did,  and  yet  keep  the 
use  of  my  eyes,  and  of  my  hands,  as  well  as  if  I  were  sober." 
Upon  this,  he  drank  to  a  higher  pitch  than  ordinary,  and  or- 
dered Praexaspes'  son  to  go  out,  and  stand  on  the  other  side 
of  the  threshold,  with  his  left  arm  over  his  head;  "And," 
says  he,  "If  I  have  a  good  aim,  have  at  the  heart  of  him."  He 
shot,  and  upon  cutting  up  the  young  man,  they  found  indeed 
that  the  arrow  had  struck  him  through  the  middle  of  the  heart. 
"What  do  you  think  now,"  says  Cambyses,  "is  my  hand 
steady  or  not.?"  "Apollo  himself,"  says  Praexaspes,  "could 
not  have  outdone  it."  It  may  be  a  question  now,  which  was 
the  greater  impiety,  the  murder  itself,  or  the  commendation 
of  it;  for  him  to  take  the  heart  of  his  son,  while  it  was  yet 
reeking  and  panting  under  the  wound,  for  an  occasion  of 
flattery:  why  was  there  not  another  experiment  made  upon 
the  father,  to  try  if  Cambyses  could  not  have  yet  mended  his 
shot?  This  was  a  most  unmanly  violation  of  hospitality;  but 
the  approbation  of  the  fact  was  still  worse  than  the  crime  it- 
self. This  example  of  Praexaspes  proves  sufficiently  that  a 
man  may  repress  his  anger;  for  he  returned  not  one  ill  word, 
no  not  so  much  as  a  complaint;  but  he  paid  dear  for  his  good 
counsel.  He  had  been  wiser  perhaps,  if  he  had  let  the  king 
alone  in  his  cups,  for  he  had  better  have  drunk  wine  than 
blood.  It  is  a  dangerous  office  to  give  good  advice  to  in- 
temperate princes. 

Another  instance  of  anger  suppressed  we  have  in  Harpa- 
gus,    who   was    commanded    to    expose    Cyrus 
upon  a  mountain.       But    the    child  was    pre-    ^'^  instance  of 
served;    which,    when    Astyages    came    after-    ^in^jjarta^us^^^ 
wards    to    understand,    he    invited    Harpagus 
to  a  dish  of  meat;   and  when  he  had  eaten  his  fill,  he  told  him 
it  was  a  piece  of  his  son,  and  asked  him,  how  he  liked  the 
seasoning.     "Whatever   pleases  your  Majesty,"    says  Harpa- 
gus, "must  please  me:"   and  he  made  no  more  words  of  it.     It 
is  most  certain,  that  we  might  govern  our  anger  if  we  would; 
for  the  same  thing  that  galls  us  at  home  gives  us  no  off"ence 
at  all  abroad;    and  what  is  the  reason  of  it,  but  that  we  are 
patient  in  one  place,  and  froward  in  another? 

It  was  a  strong  provocation  that  which  was  given  to  Philip 


222  SENECA  OF  ANGER 

of  Macedon,  the  father  of  Alexander.  The 
The  moderation  Athenians  sent  their  ambassadors  to  him, 
0/  lip  oj  a  ^^j  they  were  received  with  this  compli- 
ment, "Tell  me,  gentlemen,"  says  Philip, 
"what  is  there  that  I  can  do  to  oblige  the  Athenians?"  De- 
mocharas,  one  of  the  ambassadors,  told  him,  that  they  would 
take  it  for  a  great  obligation  if  he  would  be  pleased  to  hang 
himself.  This  insolence  gave  an  indignation  to  the  bystand- 
ers; but  Philip  bade  them  not  to  meddle  with  him,  but  even 
to  let  that  foul-mouthed  fellow  go  as  he  came.  "And  for 
you,  the  rest  of  the  ambassadors,"  says  he,  "pray  tell  the 
Athenians,  that  it  is  worse  to  speak  such  things  than  to  hear 
and  forgive  them."  This  wonderful  patience  under  contu- 
melies was  a  great  means  of  Philip's  security. 


CHAP.   IV 

It  is  a  short  madness,  and  a  deformed  vice 

He  was  much  in  the  right,  whoever  it  was,  that  first  called 
anger  a  short  madness;  for  they  have  both  of  them  the  same 
symptoms;  and  there  is  so  wonderful  a  resemblance  betwixt 
the  transports  of  choler  and  those  of  phrensy,  that  it  is  a  hard 
matter  to  know  the  one  from  the  other.  A  bold,  fierce,  and 
threatening  countenance,  as  pale  as  ashes,  and,  in  the  same 
moment,  as  red  as  blood;  a  glaring  eye,  a  wrinkled  brow, 
violent  motions,  the  hands  restless  and  perpetually  in  action, 
wringing  and  menacing,  snapping  of  the  joints,  stamping 
with  the  feet,  the  hair  starting,  trembling  lips,  a  forced  and 
squeaking  voice;  the  speech  false  and  broken,  deep  and  fre- 
quent sighs,  and  ghastly  looks;  the  veins  swell,  the  heart  pants, 
the  knees  knock;  with  a  hundred  dismal  accidents  that  are 
common  to  both  distempers.  Neither  is  anger  a  bare  resem- 
blance only  of  madness,  but  many  times  an  irrevocable 
transition  into  the  thing  itself.  How  many  persons  have  we 
known,  read,  and  heard  of,  that  have  lost  their  wits  in  a  pas- 
sion, and  never  came  to  themselves  again?  It  is  therefore  to 
be  avoided,  not  only  for  moderation's  sake,  but  also  for  health. 
Now,  if  the  outward  appearance  of  anger  be  so  foul  and 
hideous,  how  deformed  must  that  miserable  mind  be  that  is 
harrassed  with  it?    for  it  leaves  no  place  either  for  counsel  or 


SENECA  OF  ANGER  223 

friendship,  honesty  or  good  manners;  no  place  either  for  the 
exercise  of  reason,  or  for  the  offices  of  Hfe  If  I  were  to 
describe  it,  I  would  draw  a  tiger  bathed  in  blood,  sharp  set, 
and  ready  to  take  a  leap  at  his  prey;  or  dress  it  up  as  the 
poets  represent  the  furies,  with  whips,  snakes,  and  flames;  it 
should  be  sour,  livid,  full  of  scars,  and  wallowing  in  gore, 
raging  up  and  down,  destroying,  grinning,  bellowing,  and 
pursuing;  sick  of  all  other  things,  and  most  of  all  itself.  It 
turns  beauty  into  deformity,  and  the  calmest  counsels  into 
fierceness:  it  disorders  our  very  garments,  and  fills  the  mind 
with  horror.  How  abominable  is  it  in  the  soul  then,  when  it 
appears  so  hideous  even  through  the  bones,  the  skin,  and  so 
many  impediments.?  Is  not  he  a  madman  that  has  lost  the 
government  of  himself,  and  is  tossed  hither  and  thither  by  his 
fury  as  by  a  tempest?  the  executioner  and  the  murderer  of 
his  nearest  friends?  The  smallest  matter  moves  it,  and  makes 
us  insociable  and  inaccessible.  It  does  all  things  by  violence, 
as  well  upon  itself  as  others;  and  it  is,  in  short,  the  master  of 
all  passions. 

There   is  not   any   creature   so  terrible   and   dangerous    by 
nature,  but  it  becomes  fiercer  by  anger.     Not 
that  beasts  have  human  aflFections,  but  certain    ^^^    creatures 
impulses    they    have   which    come    very    near    ^/^  .?!^  f  ^°^^ 
them.     The   boar   foams,   champs,    and   whets    ggj. 
his  tusks;    the  bull  tosses  his  horns  in  the  air, 
bounds,  and  tears  up  the  ground  with  his  feet;    the  lion  roars 
and  swinges  himself  with   his  tail;    the   serpent  swells;    and 
there  is  a  ghastly  kind  of  felness  in  the  aspect  of  a  mad  dog. 
How  great  a  wickedness  is  it  now  to  indulge  a  violence,  that 
does  not  only  turn  a  man  into  a  beast,  but  makes  even  the  most 
outrageous   of  beasts   themselves   to   be   more   dreadful    and 
mischievous!     A  vice  that  carries  along  with  it  neither  plea- 
sure nor  profit,  neither  honour  nor  security;    but  on  the  con- 
trary, destroys  us  to  all  the  comfortable  and  glorious  purposes 
of  our  reasonable  being.     Some  there  are,  that  will  have  the 
root  of  it  to  be  the  greatness  of  mind.     And,  why  may  we  not 
as  well  entitle  impudence  to  courage,  whereas  the  one  is  proud, 
the  other  brave;'    the  one  is  gracious  and  gentle,  the  other 
rude  and  furious?     At  the  same  rate  we  may  ascribe  magnani- 
mity  to    avarice,    luxury,    and    ambition,   which    are    all    but 
splendid  impotences,  without  measure  and  without  foundation. 
There  is  nothing  great  but  what  is  virtuous,  nor  indeed  truly 
great,  but  what  is  also  composed  and  quiet.     Anger,  alas!    is 


224  SENECA  OF  ANGER 

but  a  wild  impetuous  blast,  an  empty  tumour,  the  very  infirmity 
of  women  and  children;  a  brawling,  clamorous  evil:  and  the 
more  noise  the  less  courage;  as  we  find  it  commonly,  that  the 
boldest  tongues  have  the  faintest  hearts. 


CHAP.  V 

Anger  is  neither  warrantable  nor  useful 

In  the  first  place.  Anger  is  unwarrantable  as  it  is  unjust:  for 
it  falls  many  times  upon  the  wrong  person,  and  discharges 
itself  upon  the  innocent  instead  of  the  guilty:  beside  the  dis- 
proportion of  making:  the  most  trivial  offences  to  be  capital, 
and  punishing  an  inconsiderate  word  perhaps  with  torments, 
fetters,  infamy,  or  death.  It  allows  a  man  neither  time  nor 
means  for  defence,  but  judges  a  cause  without  hearing  it,  and 
admits  of  no  mediation.  It  flies  into  the  face  to  truth  itself,  if 
it  be  of  the  adverse  party;  and  turns  obstinacy  into  an  error, 
into  an  argument  of  justice.  It  does  every  thing  with  agitation 
and  tumult;  whereas  reason  and  equity  can  destroy  whole 
families,  if  there  be  occasion  for  it,  even  to  the  extinguishing 
of  their  names  and  memories,  without  any  indecency,  either  of 
countenance  or  action. 

Secondly,  It  is  insociable  to  the  highest  point;   for  it  spares 

neither  friend  nor  foe;    but  tears  all  to  pieces. 

Anger  is  m-        ^^^  casts  human  nature  into  a  perpetual  state  of 

sociable  t       ^•        ^  i        i         j       r  i 

war.  It  dissolves  the  bond  or  mutual  society, 
insomuch  that  our  very  companions  and  relations  dare  not 
come  near  us;  it  renders  us  unfit  for  the  ordinary  offices  of 
life:  for  we  can  neither  govern  our  tongues,  our  hands,  nor  any 
part  of  our  body.  It  tramples  upon  the  laws  of  hospitality, 
and  of  nations,  leaves  every  man  to  be  his  own  carver, 
and  all  things,  public  and  private,  sacred  and  profane,  suf- 
fer violence. 

Thirdly,  It  is  to  no  purpose.    "It  is  a  sad  thing,"  we  cry,  "to 

^   ,,     put   up   these   injuries,    and   we   are   not   able 
It  IS  unprofitable  i,  j>-r  ^i^  u 

to  bear  them;       as  it  any  man  that  can  bear 

anger  could  not  bear  an  injury,  which  is  much  more  support- 
able. You  will  say  that  anger  does  some  good  yet,  for  it 
keeps  people  in  awe,  and  secures  a  man  from  contempt;  never 
considering,  that  it  is  more  dangerous  to  be  feared  than  despi- 


SENECA  OF  ANGER  225 

sed.  Suppose  that  an  angry  man  could  do  as  much  as  he 
threatens;  the  more  terrible,  he  is  still  the  more  odious;  and 
on  the  other  side,  if  he  wants  power,  he  is  the  more  despicable 
for  his  anger;  for  there  is  nothing  more  wretched  than  a 
choleric  huff,  that  makes  a  noise,  and  nobody  cares  for  it.  If 
anger  would  be  valuable  because  men  are  afraid  of  it,  why 
not  an  adder,  a  toad,  or  a  scorpion  as  well?  It  makes  us  lead 
the  life  of  gladiators;  we  live,  and  we  fight  together.  —  We 
hate  the  happy,  despise  the  miserable,  envy  our  superiors, 
insult  upon  our  inferiors,  and  there  is  nothing  in  the  world 
which  we  will  not  do,  either  for  pleasure  or  profit.  To  be 
angry  at  offenders  is  to  make  ourselves  the  common  enemies 
of  mankind,  which  is  both  weak  and  wicked;  and  we  may  as 
well  be  angry  that  our  thistles  do  not  bring  forth  apples,  or 
that  every  pebble  in  our  ground  is  not  an  oriental  pearl.  If 
we  are  angry  both  with  young  men  and  with  old,  because 
they  do  offend,  why  not  with  infants  too,  because  they  will 
offend?  It  is  laudable  to  rejoice  for  any  thing  that  is  well 
done;  but  to  be  transported  for  another  man's  doing  ill  is 
narrow  and  sordid.  Nor  is  it  for  the  dignity  of  virtue  to  be 
either  angry  or  sad.  It  is  with  a  tainted  mind  as  with  an 
ulcer,  not  only  the  touch,  but  the  very  offer  at  it,  makes  us 
shrink  and  complain;  when  we  come  once  to  be  carried  off 
from  our  poise,  we  are  lost.  In  the  choice  of  a  sword,  we  take 
care  that  it  be  wieldy  and  well  mounted;  and  it  concerns  us 
as  much  to  be  wary  of  engaging  in  the  excesses  of  ungoverna- 
ble passions.  It  is  not  the  speed  of  a  horse  altogether  that 
pleases  us,  unless  we  find  that  he  can  stop  and  turn  at  plea- 
sure. It  is  a  sign  of  weakness,  and  a  kind  of  stumbling,  for  a 
man  to  run  when  he  intends  only  to  walk;  and  it  behoves  us 
to  have  the  same  command  of  our  mind  that  we  have  of  our 
bodies.  Besides  that  the  greatest  punishment  of  an  injury  is 
the  conscience  of  having  done  it;  and  no  man  suffers  more 
than  he  that  is  turned  over  to  the  pain  of  a  repentance.  How 
much  better  is  it  to  compose  injuries  than  to  revenge  them? 
For  it  does  not  only  spend  time,  but  the  revenge  of  one  injury 
exposes  to  more.  In  fine,  as  it  is  unreasonable  to  be  angry  at 
a  crime,  it  is  as  foolish  to  be  angry  without  one. 

But  "may  not  an  honest  man  then  be  allowed  to  be  angry 
at  the  murder  of  his  father,  or  the  ravishing 

of   his    sister   or    daughter    before    his    face?"    ^f^^^^'^^^ 
■NT  11         T        -11      1    r      1  allowable 

JNo,    not  at    all.      1    will    derend    my    parents, 

and  I  will  repay  the  injuries  that  are  done  them;    but  it  is  my 


226  SENECA  OF  ANGER 

piety,  and  not  my  anger,  that  moves  me  to  it.  I  will  do  my 
duty  without  fear  or  confusion;  I  will  not  rage,  I  will  not 
weep;  but  discharge  the  office  of  a  good  man  without  forfeit- 
ing the  dignity  of  a  man.  If  my  father  be  assaulted,  I  will  en- 
deavour to  rescue  him;  if  he  be  killed,  I  will  do  right  to  his 
memory;  and  all  this,  not  in  any  transport  of  passion,  but  in 
honour  and  conscience.  Neither  is  there  any  need  of  anger 
where  reason  does  the  same  thing.  A  man  may  be  temper- 
ate, and  yet  vigorous,  and  raise  his  mind  according  to  the 
occasion,  more  or  less,  as  a  stone  is  thrown  according  to  the 
discretion  and  intent  of  the  caster.  How  outrageous  have  I 
seen  some  people  for  the  loss  of  a  monkey  or  a  spaniel!  And 
were  it  not  a  shame  to  have  the  same  sense  for  a  friend  that 
we  have  for  a  puppy;  and  to  cry  like  children,  as  much  for 
a  bauble  as  for  the  ruin  of  our  country?  This  is  not  the  eflPect 
of  reason,  but  of  infirmity.  For  a  man  indeed  to  expose  his 
person  for  his  prince,  or  his  parents,  or  his  friends,  out  of  a  sense 
of  honesty,  and  judgment  of  duty,  it  is,  without  dispute,  a  wor- 
thy and  a  glorious  action;  but  it  must  be  done  then  with 
sobriety,  calmness,  and  resolution.  It  is  high  time  to  con- 
vince the  world  of  the  indignity  and  uselessness  of  this  pas- 
sion, when  it  has  the  authority  and  recommendation  of  no 
less  than  Aristotle  himself,  as  an  affection  very  much  condu- 
cing to  all  heroic  actions  that  require  heat  and  vigour:  now, 
to  show,  on  the  other  side,  that  it  is  not  in  any  case  profitable, 
we  shall  lay  open  the  obstinate  and  unbridled  madness  of  it: 
a  wickedness  neither  sensible  of  infamy  nor  of  glory,  without 
either  modesty  or  fear;  and  if  it  passes  once  from  anger  into 
a  hardened  hatred,  it  is  incurable.  It  is  either  stronger  than 
reason,  or  it  is  weaker.  If  stronger,  there  is  no  contending 
with  it;  if  weaker,  reason  will  do  the  business  without  it. 
Some  will  have  it  that  an  angry  man  is  good  natured  and  sin- 
cere; whereas,  in  truth,  he  only  lays  himself  open  out  of 
heedlessness  and  want  of  caution.  If  it  were  in  itself  good, 
the  more  of  it  the  better;  but  in  this  case,  the  more  the 
worse;  and  a  wise  man  does  his  duty,  without  the  aid  of  any 
thing  that  is  ill.  It  is  objected  by  some,  that  those  are  the 
most  generous  creatures  which  are  the  most  prone  to  anger. 
But,  first,  reason  in  man  is  impetuous  in  beasts.  Secondly, 
without  discipline,  it  runs  into  audaciousness  and  temerity; 
over  and  above  that,  the  same  thing  does  not  help  all.  If 
anger  helps  the  lion,  it  is  fear  that  saves  the  stag,  swiftness 
the  hawk,  and  flight  the  pigeon:   but  man  has  God  for  his  ex- 


SENECA  OF  ANGER  227 

ample  (who  is  never  angry)  and  not  the  creatures.  And  yet 
it  is  not  amiss  sometimes  to  counterfeit  anger;  as  upon  the 
stage;  nay,  upon  the  bench,  and  in  the  pulpit,  where  the 
imitation  of  it  is  more  effectual  than  the  thing  itself.  But  it 
is  a  great  error  to  take  this  passion  either  for  a  companion  or 
for  an  assistant  to  virtue;  that  makes  a  man  incapable  of 
those  necessary  counsels  by  which  virtue  is  to  govern  her- 
self. Those  are  false  and  inauspicious  powers,  and  destruc- 
tive of  themselves,  which  arise  only  from  the  accession  and 
fervour  of  disease.  Reason  judges  according  to  right;  anger 
will  have  every  thing  seem  right,  whatever  it  does,  and  when 
it  has  once  pitched  upon  a  mistake,  it  is  never  to  be  con- 
vinced, but  prefers  a  pertinacy,  even  in  the  greatest  evil,  be- 
fore the  most  necessary  repentance. 

Some  people  are  of  opinion  that  anger   inflames  and   ani- 
mates the  soldier;    that  it   is   a  spur  to   bold 

and    arduous    undertakings;   and   that   it   were    -^^  y  ^"'•^  «"" 
,  ,  1  1     11  cbievous    in 

better    to    moderate   than   wholly   to   suppress      ^^^^ 

it,  for  fear  of  dissolving  the  spirit  and  force 
of  the  mind.  To  this  I  answer,  that  virtue  does  not  need  the 
help  of  vice;  but  where  there  is  any  ardour  of  mind  necessary, 
we  may  rouse  ourselves,  and  be  more  or  less  brisk  and  vig- 
orous as  there  is  occasion:  but  all  without  anger  still.  It  is  a 
mistake  to  say,  that  we  may  make  use  of  anger  as  a  common 
soldier,  but  not  as  a  commander;  for  if  it  hears  reason,  and 
follows  orders,  it  is  not  properly  anger;  and  if  it  does  not,  it 
is  contumacious  and  mutinous.  By  this  argument  a  man 
must  be  angry  to  be  valiant;  covetous  to  be  industrious; 
timorous  to  be  safe,  which  makes  our  reason  confederate  with 
our  affections.  And  it  is  all  one  whether  passion  be  incon- 
siderate without  reason,  or  reason  ineffectual  without  passion; 
since  the  one  cannot  be  without  the  other.  It  is  true,  the  less 
the  passion,  the  less  is  the  mischief;  for  a  little  passion  is 
the  smaller  evil.  Nay,  so  far  is  it  from  being  of  use  or  ad- 
vantage in  the  field,  that  it  is  in  place  of  all  others  where  it  is 
the  most  dangerous;  for  the  actions  of  war  are  to  be  managed 
with  order  and  caution,  not  precipitation  and  fancy;  whereas 
anger  is  heedless  and  heady,  and  the  virtue  only  of  barbarous 
nations;  which,  though  their  bodies  were  much  stronger 
and  more  hardened,  were  still  worsted  by  the  moderation 
and  disipline  of  the  Romans.  There  is  not  upon  the  face 
of  the  earth  a  bolder  or  a  more  indefatigable  nation  than  the 
Germans;    not  a  braver  upon  a  charge,  nor  a  hardier  against 


228  SENECA  OF  ANGER 

colds  and  heats;  their  only  delights  and  exercise  is  in  arms, 
to  the  utter  neglect  of  all  things  else:  and,  yet  upon  the  en- 
counter, they  are  broken  and  destroyed  through  their  own 
undisciplined  temerity,  even  by  the  most  effeminate  of  men. 
The  huntsman  is  not  angry  with  the  wild  boar  when  he  either 
pursues  or  receives  him;  a  good  swordsman  watches  his  op- 
portunity, and  keeps  himself  upon  his  guard,  whereas  passion 
lays  a  man  open:  nay,  it  is  one  of  the  prime  lessons  in  a  fen- 
cing-school to  learn  not  to  be  angry.  If  Fabius  had  been 
choleric,  Rome  had  been  lost;  and  before  he  conquered  Han- 
nibal he  overcame  himself.  If  Scipio  had  been  angry,  he 
would  never  have  left  Hannibal  and  his  army  (who  were  the 
proper  objects  of  his  displeasure)  to  carry  the  war  into  Afric  and 
so  compass  his  end  by  a  more  temperate  way.  Nay,  he  was 
so  slow,  that  it  was  charged  upon  him  for  want  of  mettle  and 
resolution.  And  what  did  the  other  Scipio.?  (Africanus  I 
mean:)  how  much  time  did  he  spend  before  Numantia,  to 
the  common  grief  both  of  his  country  and  himself?  Though 
he  reduced  it  at  last  by  so  miserable  a  famine,  that  the  in- 
habitants laid  violent  hands  upon  themselves,  and  left  nei- 
ther man,  woman,  nor  child,  to  survive  the  ruins  of  it.  If 
anger  makes  a  man  fight  better,  so  does  wine,  frenzy,  nay, 
and  fear  itself;  for  the  greatest  coward  in  despair  does  the 
greatest  wonders.  No  man  is  courageous  in  his  anger  that 
was  not  so  without  it.  But  put  the  case,  that  anger  by  acci- 
dent may  have  done  some  good,  and  so  have  fevers  removed 
some  distempers;  but  it  is  an  odious  kind  of  remedy  that 
makes  us  indebted  to  a  disease  for  a  cure.  How  many  men 
have  been  preserved  by  poison;  by  a  fall  from  a  precipice; 
by  a  shipwreck:  by  a  tempest?  does  it  therefore  follow  that 
we  are  to  recommend  the  practice  of  these  experiments? 
"But  in  case  of  an  exemplary  and  prostitute  dissolution  of 
manners,  when  Clodius  shall  be  preferred. 
He  that  is  an-  and  Cicero  rejected;  when  loyalty  shall 
gry  at  ■public  j^g  broken  upon  the  wheel,  and  treason  sit 
wickedness  shall  •  i  ^i        u        i         •  i  • 

never   be   at  tnumphant    upon    the    bench;     is    not    this    a 

peace  Subject   to   move   the   choler   of  any   virtuous 

man?"  No,  by  no  means,  virtue  will  never 
allow  of  the  correcting  of  one  vice  by  another;  or  that  an- 
ger, which  is  the  greater  crirne  of  the  two,  should  presume  to 
punish  the  less.  It  is  the  natural  property  of  virtue  to  make  a 
man  serene  and  cheerful;  and  it  is  not  for  the  dignity  of  a 
philosopher  to  be  transported  either  with  grief  or  anger;   and 


SENECA  OF  ANGER  229 

then  the  end  of  anger  is  sorrow,  the  constant  effect  of  dis- 
appointment and  repentance.  But,  to  my  purpose.  If  a 
man  should  be  angry  at  wickedness,  the  greater  the  wick- 
edness is,  the  greater  must  be  his  anger;  and,  so  long  as 
there  is  wickedness  in  the  world  he  must  never  be  pleased: 
which  makes  his  quiet  dependent  upon  the  humour  or  man- 
ners of  others.  There  passes  not  a  day  over  our  heads  but 
he  that  is  choleric  shall  have  some  cause  or  other  of  displea- 
sure, either  from  men,  accidents,  or  business.  He  shall 
never  stir  out  of  his  house  but  he  shall  meet  with  criminals 
of  all  sorts;  prodigal,  impudent,  covetous,  perfidious,  conten- 
tious, children  persecuting  their  parents,  parents  cursing  their 
children,  the  innocent  accused,  the  delinquent  acquitted,  and 
the  judge  practising  that  in  his  chamber  which  he  condemns 
upon  the  bench.  In  fine,  wherever  there  are  men  there  are 
faults;  and  upon  these  terms,  Socrates  himself  should  never 
bring  the  same  countenance  home  again  that  he  carried  out 
with  him. 

If  anger  were  suflferable  in  any  case,  it  might  be  allowed 
against     an     incorrigible     criminal     under    the 

hand  of  justice:    but  punishment  is  not  matter    7^^Jl'^^  ^^  "^f^ 

»  •" ,  -  F  ...  and  temperate 

or  anger  but  01  caution,      ihe  law  is  without 

passion,  and  strikes  malefactors  as  we  do  serpents  and  venomous 
creatures,  for  fear  of  greater  mischief.  It  is  not  for  the  dignity 
of  a  judge,  when  he  comes  to  pronounce  the  fatal  sentence, 
to  express  any  motions  of  anger  in  his  looks,  words,  or  ges- 
tures: for  he  condemns  the  vice,  not  the  man;  and  looks 
upon  the  wickedness  without  anger,  as  he  does  upon  the 
prosperity  of  wicked  men  without  envy.  But  though  he  be 
not  angry,  I  would  have  him  a  little  moved  in  point  of  humani- 
ty; but  yet  without  any  offence,  either  to  his  place  or 
wisdom.  Our  passions  vary,  but  reason  is  equal;  and  it  were 
a  great  folly  for  that  which  is  stable,  faithful,  and  sound,  to 
repair  for  succour  to  that  which  is  uncertain,  false,  and  dis- 
tempered. If  the  offender  be  incurable,  take  him  out  of  the 
world,  that  if  he  will  not  be  good  he  may  cease  to  be  evil; 
but  this  must  be  without  anger  too.  Does  any  man  hate  an 
arm,  or  a  leg,  when  he  cuts  it  off;  or  reckon  that  a  passion 
which  is  only  a  miserable  cure?  We  knock  mad  dogs  on  the 
head,  and  remove  scabbed  sheep  out  of  the  fold:  and  this  is 
not  anger  still,  but  reason,  to  separate  the  sick  from  the  sound. 
Justice  cannot  be  angry;  nor  is  there  any  need  of  an  angry 
magistrate   for  the   punishment  of  foolish   and   wicked   men. 


230  SENECA  OF  ANGER 

The  power  of  life  and  death  must  not  be  managed  with 
passion.  We  give  a  horse  the  spur  that  is  restiff  or  jaddish, 
and  tries  to  cast  his  rider;  but  this  is  without  anger  too,  and 
only  to  take  down  his  stomach,  and  bring  him,  by  correction, 
to  obedience. 

It  is  true,  that  corrrection  is  necessary,  yet  within  reason 

and  bounds;    for  it  does  not  hurt,  but  profits 

Correction  is         ^g  under  an  appearance  of  harm.     Ill  disposi- 

necessary,    but  •  .         ,         ^  .     ,  t         i      i  •  i 

within  bounds  ^'O^^  \"  ^^^  "^^"^  ^""^  ^^  ^^ .  ^^alt  With  aS 
those  in  the  body:  the  physician  first  tries 
purging  and  abstinence;  if  this  will  not  do,  he  proceeds  to 
bleeding,  nay,  to  dismembering  rather  than  fail;  for  there  is  no 
operation  too  severe  that  ends  in  health.  The  public  magis- 
trate, begins  with  persuasion,  and  his  business  is  to  beget  a 
detestation  for  vice,  and  a  veneration  for  virtue;  from 
thence,  if  need  be,  he  advances  to  admonition  and  reproach, 
and  then  to  punishment;  but  moderate  and  revocable,  un- 
less the  wickedness  be  incurable,  and  then  the  punishment 
must  be  so  too.  There  is  only  this  difference,  the  physician 
when  he  cannot  save  his  patient's  life,  endeavours  to  make 
his  death  easy;  but  the  magistrate  aggravates  the  death  of 
the  criminal  with  infamy  and  disgrace;  not  as  delighting  in 
the  severity  of  it,  (for  no  good  man  can  be  so  barbarous)  but  for 
example,  and  to  the  end  that  they  that  will  do  no  good  living 
may  do  some  dead.  The  end  of  all  correction  is  either  the 
amendment  of  wicked  men,  or  to  prevent  the  influence  of  ill 
example:  for  men  are  punished  with  a  respect  to  the  future; 
not  to  expiate  off'ences  committed,  but  for  fear  of  worse  to 
come.  Pubhc  offenders  must  be  a  terror  to  others;  but  still, 
all  this  while,  the  power  of  life  and  death  must  not  be  mana- 
ged with  passion.  The  medicine,  in  the  mean  time,  must  be 
suited  to  the  disease:  infamy  cures  one,  pain  another,  exile 
cures  a  third,  beggary  a  fourth;  but  there  are  some  that  are 
only  to  be  cured  by  the  gibbet.  I  would  be  no  more  angry 
with  a  thief,  or  a  traitor,  than  I  am  angry  with  myself  when  I 
open  a  vein.  All  punishment  is  but  a  moral  or  civil  remedy. 
I  do  not  do  any  thing  that  is  very  ill,  but  yet  I  transgress 
often.  Try  me  first  with  a  private  reprehension,  and  then 
with  a  public;  if  that  will  not  serve,  see  what  banishment 
will  do;  if  not  that  neither,  load  me  with  chains,  lay  me  in 
prison:  but  if  I  should  prove  wicked  for  wickedness'  sake, 
and  leave  no  hope  of  reclaiming  me,  it  would  be  a  kind  of 


SENECA  OF  ANGER  231 

mercy  to  destroy  me.  Vice  is  incorporated  with  me;  and 
there  is  no  remedy  but  the  taking  of  both  away  together;  but 
still  without  anger. 


CHAP.   VI 

Anger  in  general,  with  the  danger  and  effects  of  it 

There  is  no  surer  argument  of  a  great  mind  than  not  to  be 
transported  to  anger  by  any  accident;  the  clouds  and  the 
tempests  are  formed  below,  but  all  above  is  quiet  and  serene; 
which  is  the  emblem  of  a  brave  man,  that  suppresses  all 
provocations,  and  lives  within  himself,  modest,  venerable, 
and  composed:  whereas  anger  is  a  turbulent  humour,  which 
at  first  dash,  casts  off  all  shame,  without  any  regard  to  order, 
measure,  or  good  manners;  transporting  a  man  into  mis- 
becoming violences  with  his  tongue,  his  hands,  and  every  part 
of  his  body.  And  whoever  considers  the  foulness  and  the 
brutality  of  this  vice,  must  acknowledge  that  there  is  no  such 
monster  in  Nature  as  one  man  raging  against  another,  and 
labouring  to  sink  that  which  can  never  be  drowned  but  with 
himself  for  company.  It  renders  us  incapable  either  of  dis- 
course or  of  other  common  duties.  It  is  of  all  passions  the 
most  powerful;  for  it  makes  a  man  that  is  in  love  to  kill  his 
mistress,  the  ambitious  man  to  trample  upon  his  honours,  and 
the  covetous  to  throw  away  his  fortune.  There  is  not  any 
mortal  that  lives  free  from  the  danger  of  it;  for  it  makes  even 
the  heavy  and  the  good-natured  to  be  fierce  and  outrageous: 
it  invades  us  like  a  pestilence,  the  lusty  as  well  as  the  weak; 
and  it  is  not  either  strength  of  body,  or  a  good  diet,  that  can 
secure  us  against  it;  nay,  the  learnedest,  and  men  otherwise 
of  exemplary  sobriety,  are  infected  with  it.  It  is  so  potent  a 
passion  that  Socrates  durst  not  trust  himself  with  it.  "Sirrah," 
says  he  to  his  man,  "now  would  I  beat  you  if  I  were  not 
angry  with  you."  There  is  no  age  or  sect  of  men  that  escapes 
it.  Other  vices  take  us  one  by  one;  but  this,  like  an  epidemi- 
cal contagion,  sweeps  all:  men,  women,  and  children,  prin- 
ces and  beggars,  are  carried  away  with  it  in  shoals  and  troops 
as  one  man.  It  was  never  seen  that  a  whole  nation  was  in 
love  with  one  woman,  or  unanimously  bent  upon  one  vice: 
but  here  and  there  some  particular  men  are  tainted  with  some 


232  SENECA  OF  ANGER 

particular  crimes;  whereas  in  anger,  a  single  word  many 
times  inflames  the  whole  multitude,  and  men  betake  them- 
selves presently  to  fire  and  sword  upon  it;  the  rabble  take 
upon  them  to  give  laws  to  their  governors;  the  common  sol- 
diers to  their  officers,  to  the  ruin,  not  only  of  private  families, 
but  of  kingdoms;  turning  their  arms  against  their  own  leaders, 
and  choosing  their  own  generals.  There  is  no  public  council, 
no  putting  of  things  to  the  vote;  but  in  a  rage  the  mutineers 
divide  from  the  senate,  name  their  head,  force  the  nobility  in 
their  own  houses,  and  put  them  to  death  with  their  own  hands. 
The  laws  of  nations  are  violated,  the  persons  of  public  minis- 
ters affronted,  whole  cities  infected  with  a  general  madness, 
and  no  respite  allowed  for  the  abatement  or  discussing  of  this 
public  tumour.  The  ships  are  crowded  with  tumultuary  sol- 
diers; and  in  this  rude  and  ill-boding  manner  they  march,  and 
act  under  the  conduct  only  of  their  own  passions.  Whatever 
comes  next  serves  them  for  arms,  until  at  last  they  pay  for 
their  licentious  rashness  with  the  slaughter  of  the  whole  party: 
this  is  the  event  of  a  heady  and  inconsiderate  war.  When 
men's  minds  are  struck  with  the  opinion  of  an  injury,  they 
fall  on  immediately  wheresoever  their  passion  leads  them, 
without  either  order,  fear,  or  caution;  provoking  their  own 
mischief;  never  at  rest  till  they  come  to  blows;  and  pursuing 
their  revenge,  even  with  their  bodies,  upon  the  points  of  their 
enemies'  weapons.  So  that  the  anger  itself  is  much  more 
hurtful  for  us  that  the  injury  that  provokes  it;  for  the  one  is 
bounded,  but  where  the  other  will  stop  no  man  living  knows. 
There  are  no  greater  slaves  certainly,  than  those  that  serve 
anger;  for  they  improve  their  misfortunes  by  an  impatience 
more  insupportable  than  the  calamity  that  causes  it. 

Nor  does  it  rise  by  degrees,  as  other  passions,  but  flashes 

like    gunpowder,    blowing    up    all    in    a    mo- 

Anger  blows  up      ^^^^      Neither    does    it    only    press    to    the 

all  Ifl  d  TYLOTTlCTlt 

mark,  but  overbears  everything  in  the  way 
to  it.  Other  vices  drive  us,  but  this  hurries  us  headlong; 
other  passions  stand  firm  themselves,  though  perhaps  we  can- 
not resist  them;  but  this  consumes  and  destroys  itself:  it 
falls  like  thunder  or  a  tempest,  with  an  irrevocable  violence, 
that  gathers  strength  in  the  passage,  and  then  evaporates  in 
the  conclusion.  Other  vices  are  unreasonable,  but  this  is  un- 
healthful  too;  other  distempers  have  their  intervals  and  de- 
grees, but  in  this  we  are  thrown  down  as  from  a  precipice: 
there  is  not  any  thing  so  amazing  to  others,  or  so  destructive 


SENECA  OF  ANGER  233 

to  itself;  so  proud  and  insolent  if  it  succeeds,  or  so  extrava- 
gant if  it  be  disappointed.  No  repulse  discourages  it,  and, 
for  want  of  other  matter  to  work  upon,  it  falls  foul  upon  it- 
self; and  let  the  ground  be  never  so  trivial;  it  is  sufficient  for 
the  wildest  outrage  imaginable.  It  spares  neither  age,  sex, 
nor  quality.  Some  people  would  be  luxurious  perchance, 
but  that  they  are  poor;  and  others  lazy,  if  they  were  not  per- 
petually kept  at  work.  The  simplicity  of  a  country  life,  keeps 
many  men  in  ignorance  of  the  frauds  and  impieties  of  courts 
and  camps:  but  no  nation  or  condition  of  men  is  exempt 
from  the  impressions  of  anger;  and  it  is  equally  dangerous, 
as  well  in  war  as  in  peace.  We  find  that  elephants  will  be 
made  familiar;  bulls  will  suffer  children  to  ride  upon  their 
backs,  and  play  with  their  horns;  bears  and  lions,  by  good 
usage,  will  be  brought  to  fawn  upon  their  masters;  how  des- 
perate a  madness  is  it  then  for  men,  after  the  reclaiming  the 
fiercest  of  beasts,  and  the  bringing  of  them  to  be  tractable 
and  domestic,  to  become  yet  worse  than  beasts  one  to 
another?  Alexander  had  two  friends,  Clytus  and  Lysima- 
chus;  the  one  he  exposed  to  a  lion,  the  other  to  himself; 
and  he  that  was  turned  loose  to  the  beast  escaped.  Why  do 
we  not  rather  make  the  best  of  a  short  life,  and  render  our- 
selves amiable  to  all  while  we  live,  and  desirable  when  we 
die? 

Let  us  bethink  ourselves  of  our  mortality,  and  not  squan- 
der away  the  little  time   that  we  have  upon 

animosities    and    feuds,    as    if   it    were    never    ^^S^''  ^^  *°-^/  °f 
L  J       T  T    J  L  •  ^^w^  as  well  as 

to   be   at   an   end.     riad   we   not   better  enjoy    ^t  *^eace 

the  pleasure  of  our  own  life  than  be  still 
contriving  how  to  gall  and  torment  another's?  in  all  our 
brawlings  and  contentions  never  so  much  as  dreaming  of 
our  weakness.  Do  we  not  know  that  these  implacable  en- 
mities of  ours  lie  at  the  mercy  of  a  fever,  or  any  petty  acci- 
dent, to  disappoint?  Our  fate  is  at  hand,  and  the  very  hour 
that  we  have  set  for  another  man's  death  may  peradventure 
be  prevented  by  our  own.  What  is  it  that  we  make  all  this 
bustle  for,  and  so  needlessly  disquiet  our  minds?  We  are  of- 
fended with  our  servants,  our  masters,  our  princes,  our 
clients:  it  is  but  a  little  patience,  and  we  shall  be  all  of  us 
equal;  so  that  there  is  no  need  either  of  ambushes  of  or  com- 
bats. Our  wrath  cannot  go  beyond  death;  and  death  will 
most  undoubtedly  come  whether  we  be  peevish  or  quiet.  It 
is  time  lost  to  take  pains  to  do  that  which  will  infallibly  be 


234  SENECA  OF  ANGER 

done  without  us.  But  suppose  that  we  would  only  have  our 
enemy  banished,  disgraced,  or  damaged,  let  his  punishment 
be  more  or  less,  it  is  yet  too  long,  either  for  him  to  be  inhu- 
manly tormented,  or  for  us  ourselves  to  be  most  barbarously 
pleased  with  it.  It  holds  in  anger  as  in  mourning,  it  must  and 
it  will  at  last  fall  of  itself;  let  us  look  to  it  then  betimes,  for 
when  it  is  once  come  to  an  ill  habit,  we  shall  never  want 
matter  to  feed  it;  and  it  is  much  better  to  overcome  our  pas- 
sions than  to  be  overcome  by  them.  Some  way  or  other, 
either  our  parents,  children,  servants,  acquaintance,  or 
strangers,  will  be  continually  vexing  us.  We  are  tossed  hither 
and  thither  by  our  affections,  like  a  feather  in  a  storm,  and 
by  fresh  provocations  the  madness  becomes  perpetual.  Mi- 
serable creatures!  that  ever  our  precious  hours  should  be  so 
ill  employed!  How  prone  and  eager  are  we  in  our  hatred, 
and  how  backward  in  our  love!  Were  it  not  much  better 
now  to  be  making  of  friendships,  pacifying  of  enemies,  do- 
ing of  good  offices  both  public  and  private,  than  to  be  still 
meditating  of  mischief,  and  designing  how  to  wound  one 
man  in  his  fame,  another  in  his  fortune,  a  third  in  his  person.? 
the  one  being  so  easy,  innocent,  and  safe,  and  the  other  so 
difficult,  impious,  and  hazardous.  Nay,  take  a  man  in  chains, 
and  at  the  foot  of  his  oppressor;  how  many  are  there,  who, 
even  in  this  case,  have  maimed  themselves  in  the  heat  of 
their  violence  upon  others  ? 

This   untractable   passion   is   much   more    easily   kept   out 

than  governed  when  it  is  once  admitted;  for 
Anger  ma-j  be  ^{^g  stronger  will  give  laws  to  the  weaker; 
than    goverZd       and  make  reason  a  slave  to  the  appetite.     It 

carries  us  headlong;  and  in  the  course  of 
our  fury,  we  have  no  more  command  of  our  minds,  than  we 
have  of  our  bodies  down  a  precipice:  when  they  are  once  in 
motion,  there  is  no  stop  until  they  come  to  the  bottom.  Not 
but  that  it  is  possible  for  a  man  to  be  warm  in  winter,  and  not 
to  sweat  in  the  summer,  either  by  the  benefit  of  the  place, 
or  the  hardiness  of  the  body:  and  in  like  manner  we  may 
provide  against  anger.  But  certain  it  is,  that  virtue  and  vice 
can  never  agree  in  the  same  subject;  and  one  may  be  as  well 
a  sick  man  and  a  sound  at  the  same  time,  as  a  good  man,  and 
an  angry.  Beside,  if  we  will  needs  be  quarrelsome,  it  must 
be  either  with  our  superior,  our  equal,  or  inferior.  To  con- 
tend with  our  superior  is  folly  and  madness:  with  our  equals, 
it  is  doubtful  and  dangerous;  and  with  our  inferiors,  it  is  base. 


SENECA  OF  ANGER  235 

For  does  any  man  know  but  that  he  that  is  now  our  enemy 
may  come  hereafter  to  be  our  friend,  over  and  above  the  re- 
putation of  clemency  and  good  nature?  And  what  can  be 
more  honourable  or  comfortable,  than  to  exchange  a  feud  for 
a  friendship?  the  people  of  Rome  never  had  more  faithful 
allies  than  those  that  were  at  first  the  most  obstinate  enemies; 
neither  had  the  Roman  empire  ever  arrived  at  that  height  of 
power,  if  Providence  had  not  mingled  the  vanquished  with 
the  conquerors.  There  is  an  end  of  the  contest  when  one 
side  deserts  it;  so  that  the  paying  of  anger  with  benefits  puts 
a  period  to  the  controversy.  But,  however,  if  it  be  our  for- 
tune to  transgress,  let  not  our  anger  descend  to  the  children, 
friends,  or  relations,  even  of  our  bitterest  enemies.  The 
very  cruelty  of  Sylla  was  heightened  by  that  instance  of  in- 
capacitating the  issue  of  the  proscribed.  It  is  inhuman  to  en- 
tail the  hatred  we  have  for  the  father  upon  his  posterity.  A 
good  and  a  wise  man  is  not  to  be  an  enemy  of  wicked  men, 
but  a  reprover  of  them;  and  he  is  to  look  upon  all  the  drunk- 
ards, the  lustful,  the  thankless,  covetous,  and  ambitious,  that 
he  meets  with,  no  otherwise  than  as  a  physician  looks  upon 
his  patients;  for  he  that  will  be  angry  with  any  man  must  be 
displeased  with  all;  which  were  as  ridiculous  as  to  quarrel 
with  a  body  for  stumbling  in  the  dark;  with  one  that  is  deaf, 
for  not  doing  as  you  bid  him;  or  with  a  school-boy  for  loving 
his  play  better  than  his  book.  Democritus  laughed,  and  He- 
raclitus  wept,  at  the  folly  and  wickedness  of  the  world,  but 
we  never  read  of  an  angry  philosopher. 

This   is   undoubtedly   the   most   detestable   of  vices,   even 
compared    with    the    worst    of    them.     Ava- 
rice    scrapes      and      gathers      together     that    ^^ger  the  most 
,.,  ,j  ,  1,  c  detestable  of  all 

which     somebody    may     be    the     better    tor:    ^^^-^^^ 

but  anger  lashes  out,  and  no  man  comes 
off  gratis.  An  angry  master  makes  one  servant  run  away, 
and  another  hang  himself;  and  his  choler  causes  him  a  much 
greater  loss  than  he  suflTered  in  the  occasion  of  it.  It  is  the 
cause  of  mourning  to  the  father,  and  of  divorce  to  the  hus- 
band: it  makes  the  magistrate  odious,  and  gives  the  candi- 
date a  repulse.  And  it  is  worse  than  luxury  too,  which  only 
aims  at  its  proper  pleasure;  whereas  the  other  is  bent  upon 
another  body's  pain.  The  malevolent  and  the  envious  con- 
tent themselves  only  to  wish  another  man  miserable;  but  it  is 
the  business  of  anger  to  make  him  so,  and  to  wreck  the  mis- 
chief itself;    not  so  much  desiring  the  hurt  of  another,  as  to 


236  SENECA  OF  ANGER 

inflict  it.  Among  the  powerful,  it  breaks  out  into  open  war, 
and  into  a  private  one  with  the  common  people,  but  without 
force  or  arms.  It  engages  us  in  treacheries,  perpetual  trou- 
bles and  contentions:  it  alters  the  very  nature  of  a  man,  and 
punishes  itself  in  the  persecution  of  others.  Humanity  ex- 
cites us  to  love,  this  to  hatred;  that  to  be  beneficial  to  others, 
this  to  hurt  them:  beside,  that  though  it  proceeds  from  too 
high  a  conceit  of  ourselves,  it  is  yet,  in  effect,  but  a  narrow 
and  contemptible  affection;  especially  when  it  meets  with  a 
mind  that  is  hard  and  impenetrable,  and  returns  the  dart  upon 
the  head  of  him  that  casts  it. 

To  take  a  farther  view,  now,  of  the  miserable  consequences 

and  sanguinary  effects  of  this  hideous  distem- 
The   misera  le  ^-j.^^^    hence    come    slaughters    and    poi- 

effects  of  anger        ^     '  j     j       1   *•  *u  •  j 

sons,   wars,    and    desolations,    the    razmg    and 

burning  of  cities;  the  unpeopling  of  nations,  and  the  turn- 
ing of  populous  countries  into  deserts;  public  massacres  and 
regicides:  princes  led  in  triumph;  some  murdered  in  their 
bed-chambers;  others  stabbed  in  the  senate,  or  cut  off  in  the 
security  of  their  spectacles  and  pleasures.  Some  there  are 
that  take  anger  for  a  princely  quality:  as  Darius,  who,  in  his 
expedition  against  the  Scythians,  being  besought  by  a  noble- 
man, that  had  three  sons,  that  he  would  vouchsafe  to  accept 
of  two  of  them  into  his  service,  and  leave  the  third  at  home 
for  a  comfort  to  his  father.  "I  will  do  more  for  you  than 
that,"  says  Darius,  "for  you  shall  have  them  all  three  again:" 
so  he  ordered  them  to  be  slain  before  his  face,  and  left  him 
their  bodies.  But  Xerxes  dealt  a  little  better  with  Pythius, 
who  had  five  sons,  and  desired  only  one  of  them  for  himself. 
Xerxes  bade  him  take  his  choice,  and  he  named  the  eldest, 
whom  he  immediately  commanded  to  be  cut  in  halves;  and 
one  half  of  his  body  to  be  laid  on  each  side  of  the  way  when 
his  army  was  to  pass  betwixt  them;  undoubtedly  a  most  aus- 
picious sacrifice;  but  he  came  afterward  to  the  end  that  he 
deserved;  for  he  lived  to  see  that  prodigious  power  scattered 
and  broken:  and  instead  of  military  and  victorious  troops  to 
be  encompassed  with  carcasses.  But  these,  you  will  say,  were 
only  barbarous  princes,  that  knew  neither  civility  nor  letters; 
and  these  savage  cruelties  will  be  imputed  perchance  to  their 
rudeness  of  manners,  and  want  of  discipline.  But  what  will 
you  say  then  of  Alexander  the  Great,  that  was  trained  up 
under  the  institution  of  Aristotle  himself,  and  killed  Clytus, 
his  favourite  and  school-fellow,  with  his  own  hand,  under  his 


SENECA  OF  ANGER  237 

own  roof,  and  over  the  freedom  of  a  cup  of  wine?  And  what 
was  his  crime?  He  was  loth  to  degenerate  from  a  Macedonian 
liberty  into  a  Persian  slavery;  that  is  to  say,  he  could  not  flat- 
ter. Lysimachus,  another  of  his  friends,  he  exposed  to  a 
lion;  and  this  very  Lysimachus,  after  he  had  escaped  this 
danger,  was  never  the  more  merciful  when  he  came  to  reign 
himself;  for  he  cut  off  the  ears  and  nose  of  his  friend  Te- 
lesphorus;  and  when  he  had  so  disfigured  him  that  he  had  no 
longer  the  face  of  a  man,  he  threw  him  into  a  dungeon,  and 
there  kept  him  to  be  showed  for  a  monster,  as  a  strange  sight. 
The  place  was  so  low  that  he  was  fain  to  creep  upon  all  four, 
and  his  sides  were  galled  too  with  the  straitness  of  it.  In  this 
misery  he  lay  half-famished  in  his  own  filth;  so  odious,  so 
terrible,  and  so  loathsome  a  spectacle,  that  the  horror  of  his 
condition  had  even  extinguished  all  pity  for  him.  "Nothing 
was  ever  so  unlike  a  man  as  the  poor  wretch  that  suffered 
this,  saving  the  tyrant  that  acted  it." 

Nor  did  this  merciless  hardness  only  exercise  itself  among 
foreigners,    but    the    fierceness    of   their    out- 
rages and  punishments,  as  well  as  their  vices,    „  t  '^^^^  ^  °-' 
brake  in  upon  the  Romans.     C.  Marius,  that 
had  his  statue  set  up  everywhere,  and  was  adored  as  a  God, 
L.  Sylla  commanded  his  bones  to  be  broken,  his  eyes  to  be 
pulled  out,  his  hands  to  be  cut  off;    and,  as  if  every  wound 
had  been  a  several  death,  his  body  to  be  torn  to  pieces,  and 
Catiline  was  the  executioner.     A  cruelty  that  was  only  fit  for 
Marius  to  suffer,  Sylla  to  command,  and  Catiline  to  act;    but 
most  dishonourable  and  fatal  to  the  commonwealth,  to  fall 
indifferently  upon  the  sword's  point  both  of  citizens  and  of 
enemies. 

It  was  a  severe  instance,  that  of  Piso  too.     A  soldier  that 
had    leave    to    go    abroad    with    his    comrade, 
came    back    to    the    camp    at    his    time,    but    ^  barbarous  se- 

.  ,  ,  .  •  -r*'  1  verity  oj  riso 

Without      his      companion.      riso      condemns 

him  to  die,  as  if  he  had  killed  him,  and  appoints  a  centurion 
to  see  the  execution.  Just  as  the  headsman  was  ready  to  do 
his  office,  the  other  soldier  appeared,  to  the  great  joy  of  the 
whole  field,  and  the  centurion  bade  the  executioner  hold  his 
hand.  Hereupon  Piso,  in  a  rage,  mounts  the  tribunal,  and 
sentences  all  three  to  death:  the  one  because  he  was  con- 
demned, the  other  because  it  was  for  his  sake  that  his  fellow- 
soldier  was  condemned,  the  centurion  for  not  obeying  the  or- 
der of  his  superior.     An   ingenious   piece   of  inhumanity,   to 


238  SENECA  OF  ANGER 

contrive  how  to  make  three  criminals  where  eiFectively  there 
were  none.  There  was  a  Persian  king  that  caused  the  noses 
of  a  whole  nation  to  be  cut  off,  and  they  were  to  thank  him 
that  he  spared  their  heads.  And  this,  perhaps,  would  have 
been  the  fate  of  the  Macrobii,  (if  Providence  had  not  hin- 
dered it,)  for  the  freedom  they  used  to  Cambyses's  ambassa- 
dors, in  not  accepting  the  slavish  terms  that  were  offered 
them.  This  put  Cambyses  into  such  a  rage,  that  he  presently 
listed  into  his  service  every  man  that  was  able  to  bear  arms; 
and,  without  either  provisions  or  guides,  marched  immedi- 
ately through  dry  and  barren  deserts,  and  where  never  any  man 
had  passed  before  him,  to  take  his  revenge.  Before  he  was  a 
third  part  of  the  way,  his  provisions  failed  him.  His  men,  at 
first,  made  shift  with  the  buds  of  trees,  boiled  leather,  and  the 
like;  but  soon  after  there  was  not  so  much  as  a  root  or  a 
plant  to  be  gotten,  nor  a  living  creature  to  be  seen;  and  |:hen 
by  lot  every  tenth  man  was  to  die  for  a  nourishment  to  the 
rest,  which  was  still  worse  than  a  famine.  But  yet  this 
passionate  king  went  on  so  far,  until  one  part  of  his  army  was 
lost,  and  the  other  devoured,  and  until  he  feared  that  he  him- 
self might  come  to  be  served  with  the  same  sauce.  So  that 
at  last  he  ordered  a  retreat,  wanting  no  delicates  all  this 
while  for  himself,  while  his  soldiers  were  taking  their  chance 
who  should  die  miserably,  or  live  worse.  Here  was  an  anger 
taken  up  against  a  whole  nation,  that  neither  deserved  any 
ill  from  him,  nor  was  so  much  as  known  to  him. 


CHAP.  VII 

The  ordinary  grounds  and  occasions  of  anger 

In  this  wandering  state  of  life  we  meet  with  many  oc- 
casions of  trouble  and  displeasure,  both  great  and  trivial, 
and  not  a  day  passes  but,  from  men  or  things,  we  have  some 
cause  or  other  for  offence;  as  a  man  must  expect  to  be  justled, 
dashed,  and  crowded,  in  a  populous  city.  One  man  deceives 
our  expectation;  another  delays  it;  and  a  third  crosses  it; 
and  if  everything  does  not  succeed  to  our  wish,  we  presently 
fall  out  either  with  the  person,  the  business,  the  place,  our 
fortune,  or  ourselves.  Some  men  value  themselves  upon 
their  wit,  and  will  never  forgive  any  one  that  pretends  to 


SENECA  OF  ANGER  239 

lessen  it;  others  are  inflamed  by  wine;  and  some  are  distem- 
pered by  sickness,  weariness,  watchings,  love,  care,  &c. 
Some  are  prone  to  it,  by  heat  of  constitution;  but  moist, 
dry,  and  cold  complexions  are  more  liable  to  other  affections; 
as  suspicion,  despair,  fear,  jealousy,  &c.  But  most  of  our 
quarrels  are  of  our  own  contriving.  One  while  we  suspect 
upon  mistake;  and  another  while  we  make  a  great  matter  of 
trifles.  To  say  the  truth,  most  of  those  things  that  exasperate 
us  are  rather  subjects  of  disgust  than  of  mischief:  there  is  a 
large  difference  betwixt  opposing  a  man's  satisfaction  and  not 
assisting  it:  betwixt  taking  away  and  not  giving;  but  we 
reckon  upon  denying  and  deferring  as  the  same  thing;  and 
interpret  another's  being  jor  himself  as  if  he  were  against  us. 
Nay,  we  do  many  times  entertain  an  ill  opinion  of  well- 
doing, and  a  good  one  of  the  contrary:  and  we  hate  a  man 
for  doing  that  very  thing  which  we  should  hate  him  for  on  the 
other  side,  if  he  did  not  do  it.  We  take  it  ill  to  be  opposed 
when  there  is  a  father  perhaps,  a  brother,  or  a  friend,  in  the 
case  against  us;  when  we  should  rather  love  a  man  for  it; 
and  only  wish  that  he  could  be  honestly  of  our  party.  We 
approve  of  the  fact,  and  detest  the  doer  of  it.  It  is  a  base 
thing  to  hate  the  person  whom  we  cannot  but  commend;  but 
it  is  a  great  deal  worse  yet  if  we  hate  him  for  the  very  thing 
that  deserves  commendation.  The  things  that  we  desire,  if 
they  be  such  as  cannot  be  given  to  one  without  being  taken 
away  from  another,  must  needs  set  those  people  together  by 
the  ears  that  desire  the  same  thing.  One  man  has  a  design 
upon  my  mistress,  another  upon  mine  inheritance;  and  that 
which  should  make  friends  makes  enemies,  our  being  all  of  a 
mind.  The  general  cause  of  anger  is  the  sense  or  opinion  of 
an  injury;  that  is,  the  opinion  either  of  any  injury  simply 
done,  or  of  an  injury  done  which  we  have  not  deserved. 
Some  are  naturally  given  to  anger,  others  are  provoked  to  it 
by  occasion;  the  anger  of  women  and  children  is  commonly 
sharp,  but  not  lasting:  old  men  are  rather  querulous  and 
peevish.  Hard  labour,  diseases,  anxiety  of  thought,  and 
whatsoever  hurts  the  body,  or  the  mind,  disposes  a  man  to  be 
froward,  but  we  must  not  add  fire  to  fire. 

He  that  duly  considers  the  subject-matter  of  all  our  con- 
troversies   and    quarrels,    will    find    them    low 
and   mean,   not   worth    the   thought   of  a   ge-    ^^^  subject  of 
nerous    mind;   but    the    greatest    noise    of   all    "ZnUhe  whill°^ 
is  about  money.     This  is  it  that  sets  fathers 


240  SENECA  OF  ANGER 

and  children  together  by  the  ears,  husbands  and  wives;  and 
makes  way  for  sword  and  poison.  This  is  it  that  tires  out 
courts  of  justice,  enrages  princes,  and  lays  cities  in  the  dust, 
to  seek  for  gold  and  silver  in  the  ruins  of  them.  This  is  it 
that  finds  work  for  the  judge  to  determine  which  side  is  least 
in  the  wrong;  and  whose  is  the  more  plausible  avarice,  the 
plaintifF  or  the  defendant's.  And  what  is  it  that  we  contend 
for  all  this  while,  but  those  baubles  that  makes  us  cry  when 
we  should  laugh?  To  see  a  rich  old  cufF,  that  has  nobody  to 
leave  his  estate  to,  break  his  heart  for  a  handful  of  dirt;  and 
a  gouty  usurer,  that  has  no  other  use  of  his  fingers  left  him 
but  to  count  withal;  to  see  him,  I  say,  in  the  extremity  of 
his  fit,  wrangling  for  the  odd  money  in  his  interest.  If  all 
that  is  precious  in  Nature  were  gathered  into  one  mass,  it 
were  not  worth  the  trouble  of  a  sober  mind.  It  were  endless 
to  run  over  all  those  ridiculous  passions  that  are  moved  about 
meats  and  drinks,  and  the  matter  of  our  luxury;  nay,  about 
words,  looks,  actions,  jealousies,  mistakes,  which  are  all  of 
them  as  contemptible  fooleries  as  those  very  baubles  that 
children  scratch  and  cry  for.  There  is  nothing  great  or  serious 
in  all  that  which  we  keep  such  clutter  about;  the  madness 
of  it  is,  that  we  set  too  great  a  value  upon  trifles.  One  man 
flies  out  upon  a  salute,  a  letter,  a  speech,  a  question,  a  ges- 
ture, a  wink,  a  look.  An  action  moves  one  man;  a  word 
affects  another:  one  man  is  tender  of  his  family;  another  of 
his  person;  one  sets  up  for  an  orator,  another  for  a  philoso- 
pher: this  man  will  not  bear  pride,  nor  that  man  opposition. 
He  that  plays  the  tyrant  at  home,  is  gentle  as  a  lamb  abroad. 
Some  take  offence  if  a  man  ask  a  favour  of  them,  and  others, 
if  he  does  not.  Every  man  has  his  weak  side;  let  us  learn 
which  that  is,  and  take  a  care  of  it;  for  the  same  thing  does 
not  work  upon  all  men  alike.  We  are  moved  like  beasts,  at 
the  idle  appearances  of  things,  and  the  fiercer  the  creature, 
the  more  is  it  startled.  The  sight  of  a  red  coat  enrages  a 
bull;  a  shadow  provokes  the  asp;  nay,  so  unreasonable  are 
some  men,  that  they  take  moderate  benefits  for  injuries,  and 
squabble  about  it  with  their  nearest  relations:  "They  have 
done  this  and  that  for  others,"  they  cry;  "and  they  might 
have  dealt  better  with  us  if  they  had  pleased."  Very  good! 
And  if  it  be  less  than  we  looked  for,  it  may  be  yet  more  than 
we  deserve.  Of  all  unquiet  humours  this  is  the  worst,  that 
will  never  suffer  any  man  to  be  happy,  so  long  as  he  sees  a 
happier  man  than  himself.     I  have  known  some  men  so  weak 


SENECA  OF  ANGER  241 

as  to  think  themselves  contemned,  if  a  horse  did  but  play 
the  jade  with  them,  that  is  yet  obedient  to  another  rider.  A 
brutal  folly  to  be  offended  at  a  mute  animal;  for  no  injury 
can  be  done  us  without  the  concurrence  of  reason.  A  beast 
may  hurt  us,  as  a  sword  or  a  stone,  and  no  otherwise.  Nay, 
there  are  that  will  complain  of  "foul  weather,  a  raging  sea, 
a  biting  winter,"  as  if  it  were  expressly  directed  to  them; 
and  this  they  charge  upon  Providence,  whose  operations  are 
all  of  them  so  far  from  being  injurious,  that  they  are  bene- 
ficial to  us. 

How  vain  and  idle  are  many  of  those  things  that  make  us 
stark  mad!  A  resty  horse,  the  overturning  of 
a  glass,  the  falling  of  a  key,  the  dragging  of  j.  ^ /^ff  ^^^''^ 
a  chair,  a  jealousy,  misconstruction.  How 
shall  that  man  endure  the  extremities  of  hunger  and  thirst 
that  flies  out  into  a  rage  for  putting  of  a  little  too  much  water 
in  his  wine.?  What  haste  is  there  to  lay  a  servant  by  the  heels, 
or  break  a  leg  or  an  arm  immediately  for  it,  as  if  he  were  not 
to  have  the  same  power  over  him  an  hour  after  that  he  has 
at  that  instant?  The  answer  of  a  servant,  a  wife,  a  tenant, 
puts  some  people  out  of  all  patience;  and  yet  they  can  quar- 
rel with  the  government,  for  not  allowing  them  the  same 
liberty  in  public,  which  they  themselves  deny  to  their  own 
families.  If  they  say  nothing,  it  is  contumacy:  if  they  speak 
or  laugh,  it  is  insolence.  As  if  a  man  had  his  ears  given  him 
only  for  music;  whereas  we  must  suffer  all  sorts  of  noises, 
good  and  bad,  both  of  man  and  beast.  How  idle  is  it  to 
start  at  the  tinkling  of  a  bell,  of  the  creaking  of  a  door,  when, 
for  all  his  delicacy,  we  must  endure  thunder!  Neither  are 
our  eyes  less  curious  and  fantastical  than  our  ears.  When  we 
are  abroad,  we  can  bear  well  enough  with  foul  ways,  nasty 
streets,  noisome  ditches;  but  a  spot  upon  a  dish  at  home,  or 
an  unswept  hearth,  absolutely  distracts  us.  And  what  is  the 
reason,  but  that  we  are  patient  in  the  one  place,  and  fantas- 
tically peevish  in  the  other.?  Nothing  makes  us  more  intem- 
perate than  luxury,  that  shrinks  at  every  stroke,  and  starts  at 
every  shadow.  It  is  death  to  some  to  have  another  sit  above 
them,  as  if  a  body  were  ever  the  more  or  the  less  honest  for 
the  cushion.  But  they  are  only  weak  creatures  that  think 
themselves  wounded  if  they  be  but  touched.  One  of  the  Si- 
barites,  that  was  a  fellow  hard  at  work  a  digging,  desired 
him  to  give  over,  for  it  made  him  weary  to  see  him:  and  it 
was  an  ordinary  complaint  with  him,  that  "he  could  take  no 


242  SENECA  OF  ANGER 

rest,  because  the  rose-leaves  lay  double  under  him."     When 

we  are  once  weakened  with  our  pleasures,  every  thing  grows 

intolerable.     And  we  are  angry  as  well  with  those  things  that 

cannot  hurt  us  as  with  those  that  do.     We  tear  a  book  because 

it  is   blotted;    and    our  clothes,   because  they   are  not  well 

made:    things  that  neither  deserve  our  anger  nor  feel  it:    the 

tailor,  perchance,  did   his   best,   or,   however,   had   no   intent 

to  displease  us:    if  so,  first,  why  should  we  be  angry  at  all? 

Secondly,  why  should  we  be  angry  with   the  thing   for  the 

man's  sake.?     Nay,  our  anger  extends  even  to  dogs,  horses, 

and  other  beasts. 

It  was  a  blasphemous  and  a  sottish  extravagance,  that  of 

Caius     Caesar,     who     challenged     Jupiter     for 

The  blasphe-  making  such  a  noise  with  his  thunder,  that  he 

mous   extrava-       could  not  hear  his  mimics,  and  so  invented  a 

gance  of  Latus  , »  ,  ,        , 

Casar  machme  m  imitation  or  it,  to  oppose  thunder 

to  thunder;  a  brutal  conceit,  to  imagine,  ei- 
ther that  he  could  reach  the  Almighty,  or  that  the  Almighty 
could  not  reach  him? 

And  every  jot  as  ridiculous,  though  not  so  impious,  was 

that  of  Cyrus;  who,  in  his  design  upon 
A  ridiculous  ex-    g^bylon,   found   a   river  in  his  way  that  put 

Cyrus^^'^^  ^     ^^°P     ^°     ^^^     march:    the     current     was 

strong,  and  carried  away  one  of  the  horses 
that  belonged  to  his  own  chariot:  upon  this  he  swore,  that 
since  it  had  obstructed  his  passage,  it  should  never  hinder  any 
body's  else;  and  presently  set  his  whole  army  to  work  upon 
it,  which  diverted  it  into  a  hundred  and  fourscore  channels, 
and  laid  it  dry.  In  this  ignoble  and  unprofitable  employ- 
ment he  lost  his  time,  and  the  soldiers  their  courage,  and 
gave  his  adversaries  an  opportunity  of  providing  them- 
selves, while  he  was  waging  war  with  a  river  instead  of  an 
enemy. 


CHAP.  VIII 

Advice  in  the  cases  of  contumely  and  revenge 

Of  provocations  to  anger  there  are  two  sorts;  there  is  an 
injury,  and  there  is  a  contumely.  The  former  in  its  own  na- 
ture is  the  heavier;    the  other  slight  in  itself,  and  only  trou- 


SENECA  OF  ANGER  243 

blesome  to  a  wounded  imagination.  And  yet  some  there  are 
that  will  bear  blows,  and  death  itself,  rather  than  contumelious 
words.  A  contumely  is  an  indignity  below  the  considera- 
tion of  the  very  law;  and  not  worthy  either  of  a  revenge,  or 
so  much  as  a  complaint.  It  is  only  the  vexation  and  infirmity 
of  a  weak  mind,  as  well  as  the  practice  of  a  haughty  and  inso- 
lent nature,  and  signifies  no  more  to  a  wise  and  sober  man 
than  an  idle  dream,  that  is  no  sooner  past  than  forgotten.  It 
is  true,  it  implies  contempt;  but  what  needs  any  man  care 
for  being  contemptible  to  others,  if  he  be  not  so  to  himself? 
For  a  child  in  the  arms  to  strike  the  mother,  tear  her  hair, 
claw  the  face  of  her,  and  call  her  names,  that  goes  for  nothing 
with  us,  because  the  child  knows  not  what  he  does.  Neither 
are  we  moved  at  the  impudence  and  bitterness  of  a  buffoon, 
though  he  fall  upon  his  own  master  as  well  as  the  guests;  but, 
on  the  contrary,  we  encourage  and  entertain  the  freedom. 
Are  we  not  mad  then,  to  be  delighted  and  displeased  with  the 
same  thing,  and  to  take  that  as  an  injury  from  one  man, 
which  passes  only  for  a  raillery  from  another?  He  that  is 
wise  will  behave  himself  toward  all  men  as  we  do  to  our  chil- 
dren; for  they  are  but  children  too,  though  they  have  gray 
hairs:  they  are  indeed  of  a  larger  size,  and  their  errors  are 
grown  up  with  them;  they  live  without  rule,  they  covet 
without  choice,  they  are  timorous  and  unsteady;  and  if  at 
any  time  they  happen  to  be  quiet,  it  is  more  out  of  fear  than 
reason.  It  is  a  wretched  condition  to  stand  in  awe  of  every 
body's  tongue;  and  whosoever  is  vexed  at  a  reproach  would 
be  proud  if  he  were  commended.  We  should  look  upon  con- 
tumelies, slanders,  and  ill  words,  only  as  the  clamour  of  ene- 
mies, or  arrows  shot  at  a  distance,  that  make  a  clattering 
upon  our  arms,  but  do  no  execution.  A  man  makes  himself  less 
than  his  adversary  by  fancying  that  he  is  contemned.  Things 
are  only  ill  that  are  ill  taken;  and  it  is  not  for  a  man  of  worth 
to  think  himself  better  or  worse  for  the  opinion  of  others. 
He  that  thinks  himself  injuried,  let  him  say,  "Either  I  have 
deserved  this,  or  I  have  not.  If  I  have,  it  is  a  judgment;  if  I 
have  not,  it  is  an  injustice:  and  the  doer  of  it  has  more  reason 
to  be  ashamed  than  the  sufferers."  Nature  has  assigned  every 
man  his  post,  which  he  is  bound  in  honour  to  maintain,  let 
him  be  never  so  much  pressed.  Diogenes  was  disputing  of 
anger,  and  an  insolent  young  fellow,  to  try  if  he  could  put  him 
beside  his  philosophy,  spit  in  his  face:  "Young  man,"  says 
Diogenes,  "this  does  not  make  me  angry  yet;    but  I  am  in 


244  SENECA  OF  ANGER 

some  doubt  whether  I  should  be  so  or  not."  Some  are  so 
impatient  that  they  cannot  bear  a  contumely,  even  from  a 
woman;  whose  very  beauty,  greatness,  and  ornaments,  are 
all  of  them  little  enough  to  vindicate  her  from  many  indecen- 
cies, without  much  modesty  and  discretion;  nay,  they  will 
lay  it  to  heart  even  from  the  meanest  of  servants.  How 
wretched  is  that  man  whose  peace  lies  at  the  mercy  of  the 
people?  A  physician  is  not  angry  at  the  intemperance  of  a 
mad  patient;  nor  does  he  take  it  ill  to  be  railed  at  by  a  man 
in  a  fever:  just  so  should  a  wise  man  treat  all  mankind  as  a 
physician  does  his  patient;  and  looking  upon  them  only  as 
sick  and  extravagant,  let  their  words  and  actions,  whether 
good  or  bad,  go  equally  for  nothing,  attending  still  his  duty 
even  in  the  coarsest  offices  that  may  conduce  to  their  recove- 
ry. Men  that  are  proud,  froward,  and  powerful,  he  values 
their  scorn  as  little  as  their  quality,  and  looks  upon  them  no 
otherwise  than  as  people  in  the  excess  of  a  fever.  If  a  beggar 
worships  him,  or  if  he  takes  no  notice  of  him,  it  is  all  one  to 
him;  and  with  a  rich  man  he  makes  it  the  same  case.  Their 
honours  and  their  injuries  he  accounts  much  alike?  without 
rejoicing  at  the  one,  or  grieving  at  the  other. 

In  these  cases,  the  rule  is  to   pardon  all    offences,  where 

there  is  any  sign  of  repentance,  or  hope 
Pardon  all  where  of  amendment.  It  does  not  hold  in  inju- 
there  IS  either  sign  j.jgg  ^g  jj^  benefits,  the  requiting  of  the 
hope%'' amend-'  ^ne  with  the  Other:  for  it  _  is  a  shame  to 
fnent  overcome    in    the   one,    and    in    the    other   to 

be  overcome.  It  is  the  part  of  a  great 
mind  to  despise  injuries;  and  it  is  one  kind  of  revenge  to 
neglect  a  man  as  not  worth  it:  for  it  makes  the  first  aggressor 
too  considerable.  Our  philosophy,  methinks,  might  carry  us 
up  to  the  bravery  of  a  generous  mastiff,  that  can  hear  the 
barking  of  a  thousand  curs  without  taking  any  notice  of  them. 
He  that  receives  an  injury  from  his  superior,  it  is  not  enough 
for  him  to  bear  it  with  patience,  and  without  any  thought  of 
revenge,  but  he  must  receive  it  with  a  cheerful  countenance, 
and  look  as  if  he  did  not  understand  it  too;  for  if  he  appear 
too  sensible,  he  shall  be  sure  to  have  more  of  it.  "It  is  a 
damned  humour  in  great  men,  that  whom  they  wrong  they 
will  hate."  It  is  well  answered  of  an  old  courtier,  that  was 
asked  how  he  kept  so  long  in  favour?  "Why,"  says  he,  "by 
receiving  injuries,  and  crying  your  humble  servant  for  them." 
Some  men  take  it  for  an  argument  of  greatness  to  have  re- 


SENECA  OF  ANGER  245 

venge  in  their  power;    but,  so  far  is  he  that  is  under  the 

dominion  of  anger  from  being  great,  that  he  is  not  so  much  as 

free.     Not  but  that  anger  is  a  kind  of  pleasure  to  some  in  the 

act  of  revenge;    but  the  very  word  is  inhuman,  though  it  may 

pass   for  honest.     "Virtue,"   in   short,   "is   impenetrable,   and 

revenge  is  only  the  confession  of  an  infirmity." 

It  is  a  fantastical  humour,  that  the  same  jest  in   private 

should    make    us    merry,    and    yet    enrage    us 

in  public;    nay,  we  will  not  allow  the  liberty    ^^■'^  •^^'"^  conceit 

that    we    take.     Some    railleries    we    account    '"'''^'f  "'  "^^^ 
,  I  1  •  •  '^  -private  and  an- 

pleasant,    others     bitter:    a    conceit    upon     a    gry  in  public 

squint-eye,  a  hunch-back,  or  any  personal  de- 
fect passes  for  a  reproach.  And  why  may  we  not  as  well 
hear  it  as  see  it.?  Nay,  if  a  man  imitates  our  gait,  speech, 
or  any  natural  imperfection,  it  puts  us  out  of  all  patience; 
as  if  the  counterfeit  were  more  grievous  than  the  doing  of  the 
thing  itself.  Some  cannot  endure  to  hear  of  their  age,  nor 
others  of  their  poverty;  and  they  make  the  thing  the  more 
taken  notice  of,  the  more  they  desire  to  hide  it.  Some  bitter 
jest  (for  the  purpose)  was  broken  upon  you  at  the  table:  keep 
better  company  then.  In  the  freedom  of  cups,  a  sober  man 
will  hardly  contain  himself  within  bounds.  It  sticks  with  us 
extremely  sometimes,  that  the  porter  will  not  let  us  in  to  his 
great  master.  Will  any  but  a  madman_quarrel  with  a  cur  for 
barking,  when  he  may  pacify  him  with  a  crust?  What  have 
we  to  do  but  to  keep  further  off,  and  laugh  at  him?  Fidus 
Cornelius  (a  tall  slim  fellow)  fell  downright  a-crying  in  the 
senate-house  at  Corbulo's  saying  that  "he  looked  like  an 
ostrich."  He  was  a  man  that  made  nothing  of  a  lash  upon 
his  life  and  manners;  but  it  was  worse  than  death  to  him  a 
reflection  upon  his  person.  No  man  was  ever  ridiculous  to 
others  that  laughed  at  himself  first:  it  prevents  mischief,  and 
it  is  a  spiteful  disappointment  of  those  that  take  pleasure  in 
such  abuses.  Vatinius,  (a  man  that  was  made  up  for  scorn 
and  hatred,  scurrilous  and  impudent  to  the  highest  degree,  but 
most  abusively  witty,  and  with  all  this  he  was  diseased,  and 
deformed  to  extremity)  his  way  was  always  to  make  sport 
with  himself,  and  so  he  prevented  the  mockeries  of  other  peo- 
ple. There  are  none  more  abusive  to  others  than  they  that  lie 
most  open  to  it  themselves;  but  the  humour  goes  round,  and 
he  that  laughs  at  me  to-day  will  have  somebody  to  laugh  at 
him   to-morrow,    and   revenge   my   quarrel.        But,   however, 


246  SENECA  OF  ANGER 

there  are  some  liberties  that  will  never  go  down  with  some 
men. 

Asiaticus  Valerius,  (one  of  Caligula's  particular  friends,  and 

a  man  of  stomach,  that  would  not  easily 
Same    jests  digest  an  affront)  Caligula  told  him  in  public 

foreiven  what   kind    of   bedfellow   his  wife  was.     Good 

God!  that  ever  any  man  should  hear  this,  or 
a  prince  speak  it,  especially  to  a  man  of  consular  authority, 
a  friend,  and  a  husband:  and  in  such  a  manner  too  as  at  once 
to  own  his  disgust  and  his  adultery.  The  tribune  Chaereas 
had  a  weak  broken  voice,  like  an  hermaphrodite;  when  he 
came  to  Caligula  for  the  zvord,  he  would  give  him  sometimes 
Venus,  other-whiles  Priapus,  as  a  slur  upon  him  both  ways. 
Valerius  was  afterwards  the  principal  instrument  in  the  con- 
spiracy against  him;  and  Chaereas,  to  convince  him  of  his 
manhood,  at  one  blow  cleft  him  down  the  chin  with  his 
sword.  No  man  was  so  forward  as  Caligula  to  break  a  jest, 
and  no  man  so  unwilling  to  bear  it. 


CHAP.  IX 

Cautions  against  anger  in  the  matter  of  education,  con- 
verse, and  other  general  rules  of  preventing  it,  both  in 
ourselves  and  others 

All  that  we  have  to  say  in  particular  upon  this  subject  lies 
under  these  two  heads;  first,  that  we  do  not  fall  into  anger; 
and,  secondly,  that  we  do  not  transgress  in  it.  As  in  the  case 
of  our  bodies,  we  have  some  medicines  to  preserve  us  when 
we  are  well,  and  others  to  recover  us  when  we  are  sick;  so 
it  is  one  thing  not  to  admit  it,  and  another  thing  to  overcome 
it.  We  are,  in  the  first  place,  to  avoid  all  provocations,  and 
the  beginnings  of  anger:  for  if  we  be  once  down,  it  is  a  hard 
task  to  get  up  again.  When  our  passion  has  got  the  better  of 
our  reason,  and  the  enemy  is  received  into  the  gate,  we  can- 
not expect  that  the  conqueror  should  take  conditions  from 
the  prisoner.  And,  in  truth,  our  reason,  when  it  is  thus  mas- 
tered, turns  effectually  into  passion.  A  careful  education  is  a 
great  matter;  for  our  minds  are  easily  formed  in  our  youth,  but 
it  is  a  harder  business  to  cure  ill  habits:  beside  that,  we  are  in- 


SENECA  OF  ANGER  247 

flamed  by  climate,  constitution,  company,  and  a  thousand 
other  accidents,  that  we  are  not  aware  of. 

The  choice  of  a  good  nurse,  and  a  well-natured  tutor,  goes 
a  great  way:  for  the  sweetness  both  of  the  blood  and  of  the 
manners  will  pass  into  the  child.  There  is  nothing  breeds 
anger  more  than  a  soft  and  effeminate  education;  and  it  is 
very  seldom  seen  that  either  the  mother's  or  the  schoolmas- 
ter's darling  ever  comes  to  good.  But  my  young  master, 
when  he  comes  into  the  world,  behaves  himself  like  a 
choleric  coxcomb;  for  flattery,  and  a  great  fortune,  nourish 
touchiness.  But  it  is  a  nice  point  so  to  check  the  seeds  of 
anger  in  a  child  as  not  to  take  off^  his  edge,  and  quench  his 
spirits;  whereof  a  principal  care  must  be  taken  betwixt  li- 
cence and  severity,  that  he  be  neither  too  much  emboldened 
nor  depressed.  Commendation  gives  him  courage  and  con- 
fidence; but  then  the  danger  is,  of  blowing  him  up  into  in- 
solence and  wrath:  so  that  when  to  use  the  bit,  and  when 
the  spur,  is  the  main  difficulty.  Never  put  him  to  a  necessity 
of  begging  any  thing  basely:  or  if  he  does,  let  him  go  with- 
out it.  Inure  him  to  a  familiarity  where  he  has  any  emula- 
tion; and  in  all  his  exercises  let  him  understand  that  it  is 
generous  to  overcome  his  competitor,  but  not  to  hurt  him. 
Allow  him  to  be  pleased  when  he  does  well,  but  not  trans- 
ported; for  that  will  pufF  him  up  into  too  high  a  conceit  of 
himself.  Give  him  nothing  that  he  cries  for  till  the  dogged 
fit  is  over,  but  then  let  him  have  it  when  he  is  quiet;  to  show 
him  that  there  is  nothing  to  be  gotten  by  being  peevish. 
Chide  him  for  whatever  he  does  amiss  and  make  him  betimes 
acquainted  with  the  fortune  that  he  was  born  to.  Let  his 
diet  be  cleanly,  but  sparing;  and  clothe  him  like  the  rest  of 
his  fellows:  for  by  placing  him  upon  that  equality  at  first,  he 
will  be  the  less  proud  afterward:  and,  consequently,  the  less 
waspish  and  quarrelsome. 

In  the  next  place,  let  us  have  a  care  of  temptations  that  we 
cannot  resist,  and  provocations  that  we  cannot  bear;  and  es- 
pecially of  sour  and  exceptious  company:  for  a  cross  humour 
is  contagious.  Nor  is  it  all  that  a  man  shall  be  the  better  for 
the  example  of  a  quiet  conversation;  but  an  angry  disposi- 
tion is  troublesome,  because  it  hath  nothing  else  to  work 
upon.  We  should  therefore  choose  a  sincere,  easy,  and  tem- 
perate companion,  that  will  neither  provoke  anger  nor  return 
it;  nor  give  a  man  any  occasion  of  exercising  his  distempers. 
Nor  is  it  enough  to  be  gentle,  submissive,  and  humane,  with- 


248  SENECA  OF  ANGER 

out  integrity  and  plain-dealing;  for  flattery  is  as  offensive  on 
the  other  side.  Some  men  would  take  a  curse  from  you  bet- 
ter than  a  compliment.  Caelius,  a  passionate  orator,  had  a 
friend  of  singular  patience  that  supped  with  him,  who  had  no 
way  to  avoid  a  quarrel  but  by  saying  amen  to  all  that  Caelius 
said.  Caelius,  taking  this  ill:  "Say  something  against  me," 
says  he,  "that  you  and  I  may  be  two;"  and  he  was  angry 
with  him  because  he  would  not:  but  the  dispute  fell,  as  it 
needs  must,  for  want  of  an  opponent. 

He  that  is  naturally  addicted  to  anger,  let  him  use  a  mode- 
rate diet,  and  abstain  from  wine;  for  it  is  but  adding  fire  to 
fire.  Gentle  exercises,  recreations,  and  sports,  temper  and 
sweeten  the  mind.  Let  him  have  a  care  also  of  long  and 
obstinate  disputes;  for  it  is  easier  not  to  begin  them  than  to 
put  an  end  to  them.  Severe  studies  are  not  good  for  him 
neither,  as  law,  mathematics;  too  much  attention  preys  upon 
the  spirits,  and  makes  him  eager:  but  poetry,  history,  and 
those  lighter  entertainments,  may  serve  him  for  diversion  and 
relief.  He  that  would  be  quiet,  must  not  venture  at  things 
out  of  his  reach,  or  beyond  his  strength;  for  he  shall  either 
stagger  under  the  burden,  or  discharge  it  upon  the  next  man 
he  meets;  which  is  the  same  case  in  civil  and  domestic  af- 
fairs. Business  that  is  ready  and  practicable  goes  ofi^  with 
ease;  but  when  it  is  too  heavy  for  the  bearer,  they  fall  both 
together.  Whatsoever  we  design,  we  should  first  take  a 
measure  of  ourselves  and  compare  our  force  with  the  under- 
taking; for  it  vexes  a  man  not  to  go  through  with  his  work: 
a  repulse  inflames  a  generous  nature,  as  it  makes  one  that  is 
phlegmatic  sad.  I  have  known  some  that  have  advised 
looking  in  a  glass  when  a  man  is  in  the  fit,  and  the  very  spec- 
tacle of  his  own  deformity  has  cured  him.  Many  that  are 
troublesome  in  their  drink,  and  know  their  own  infirmity, 
give  their  servants  order  beforehand  to  take  them  away  by 
force  for  fear  of  mischief,  and  not  to  obey  their  masters 
themselves  when  they  are  hot  headed.  If  the  thing  were 
duly  considered,  we  should  need  no  other  cure  than  the  bare 
consideration  of  it.  We  are  not  angry  at  madmen,  children, 
and  fools,  because  they  do  not  know  what  they  do:  and  why 
should  not  imprudence  have  an  equal  privilege  in  other 
cases?  If  a  horse  kick,  or  a  dog  bite,  shall  a  man  kick  or  bite 
again?  The  one,  it  is  true,  is  wholly  void  of  reason;  but  it  is 
also  an  equivalent  darkness  of  mind  that  possesses  the  other. 
So  long  as  we  are  among  men,  let  us  cherish  humanity,  and 


SENECA  OF  ANGER  249 

so  live  that  no  man  may  be  either  in  fear  or  in  danger  of  us. 
Losses,  injuries,  reproaches,  calumnies,  they  are  but  short  in- 
conveniences, and  we  should  bear  them  with  resolution. 
Beside  that,  some  people  are  above  our  anger,  others  below 
it.  To  contend  with  our  superiors  were  a  folly,  and  with  our 
inferiors  an  indignity. 

There  is  hardly  a  more  effectual  remedy  against  anger 
than  patience  and  consideration.  Let  but  the 
first  fervour  abate,  and  that  mist  which  dark-  ^^^^'^'^^  ^°/'" 
ens  the  mind,  will  be  either  lessened  or  dis- 
pelled; a  day,  nay,  an  hour,  does  much  in  the  most  violent 
cases,  and  perchance  totally  suppresses  it:  time  discovers  the 
truth  of  things,  and  turns  that  into  judgment  which  at  first 
was  anger.  Plato  was  about  to  strike  his  servant,  and  while 
his  hand  was  in  the  air,  he  checked  himself,  but  still  held  it 
in  that  menacing  posture.  A  friend  of  his  took  notice  of  it, 
and  asked  him  what  he  meant.?  "I  am  now,"  says  Plato, 
"punishing  of  an  angry  man:"  so  that  he  had  left  his  ser- 
vant to  chastise  himself.  Another  time,  his  servant  having 
committed  a  great  fault:  "Speusippus,"  says  he,  "do  you 
beat  that  fellow,  for  I  am  angry:"  so  that  he  forebore  striking 
him  for  the  very  reason  that  would  have  made  another  man 
have  done  it.  "I  am  angry,"  says  he,  "and  shall  go  further 
than  becomes  me."  Nor  is  it  fit  that  a  servant  should  be  in 
his  power  that  is  not  his  own  master.  Why  should  any  one 
venture  now  to  trust  an  angry  man  with  a  revenge,  when 
Plato  durst  not  trust  himself?  Either  he  must  govern  that, 
or  that  will  undo  him.  Let  us  do  our  best  to  overcome  it, 
but  let  us,  however,  keep  it  close,  without  giving  it  any  vent. 
An  angry  man,  if  he  gives  himself  liberty  at  all  times,  will  go 
too  far.  If  it  comes  once  to  show  itself  in  the  eye  or  coun- 
tenance, it  has  got  the  better  of  us.  Nay,  we  should  so  op- 
pose it,  as  to  put  on  the  very  contrary  dispositions;  calm 
looks,  soft  and  slow  speech,  an  easy  and  deliberate  march; 
and  by  little  and  little,  we  may  possibly  bring  our  thoughts 
into  a  sober  conformity  with  our  actions.  When  Socrates 
was  angry,  he  would  take  himself  in  it,  and  speak  low,  in  op- 
position to  the  motions  of  his  displeasure.  His  friends  would 
take  notice  of  it;  and  it  was  not  to  his  disadvantage  neither, 
but  rather  to  his  credit,  that  so  many  should  knozv  that  he  was 
angry,  and  nobody  feel  it;  which  could  never  have  been,  if 
he  had  not  given  his  friends  the  same  liberty  of  admonition 
which  he  himself  took.     And  this  course  should  we  take;   we 


250  SENECA  OF  ANGER 

should  desire  our  friends  not  to  flatter  us  in  our  follies,  but  to 
treat  us  with  all  liberties  of  reprehension,  even  when  we  are 
least  willing  to  bear  it,  against  so  powerful  and  so  insinuating 
an  evil;  we  should  call  for  help  while  we  have  our  eyes  in 
our  head,  and  are  yet  masters  of  ourselves.  Moderation  is 
profitable  for  subjects,  but  more  for  princes,  who  have  the 
means  of  executing  all  that  their  anger  prompts  them  to. 
When  that  power  comes  once  to  be  exercised  to  a  common 
mischief,  it  can  never  long  continue;  a  common  fear  joining 
in  one  cause  all  their  divided  complaints.  In  a  word  now, 
how  we  may  prevent,  moderate,  or  master  this  impotent  pas- 
sion in  others. 

It  is  not  enough  to  be  sound  ourselves,  unless  we  endea- 
vour  to    make   others    so,    wherein    we   must 
Several  ways  of      accommodate     the     remedy     to     the     temper 
diverting   anger  ~     ,  .  ^  i         i      i  •  i 

or   the  patient,     bome   are  to    be    dealt   with 

by  artifice  and  address:  as,  for  example,  "Why  will  you 
gratify  your  enemies,  to  show  yourself  so  much  concerned. 
It  is  not  worth  your  anger:  it  is  below  you:  I  am  as  much 
troubled  at  it  myself  as  you  can  be;  but  you  had  better  say 
nothing,  and  take  your  time  to  be  even  with  them."  Anger 
in  some  people  is  to  be  openly  opposed;  in  others,  there 
must  be  a  little  yielding,  according  to  the  disposition  of  the 
person.  Some  are  won  by  entreaties,  others  are  gained  by 
mere  shame  and  conviction,  and  some  by  delay;  a  dull  way 
of  cure  for  a  violent  distemper:  but  this  must  be  the  last  ex- 
periment. Other  affections  may  be  better  dealt  with  at 
leisure:  for  they  proceed  gradually;  but  this  commences 
and  perfects  itself  in  the  same  moment.  It  does  not,  like 
other  passions,  solicit  and  mislead  us,  but  it  runs  away  with 
us  by  force,  and  hurries  us  on  with  an  irresistible  temerity,  as 
well  to  our  own  as  to  another's  ruin:  not  only  flying  in  the 
face  of  him  that  provokes  us,  but,  like  a  torrent,  bearing 
down  all  before  it.  There  is  no  encountering  the  first  heat 
and  fury  of  it:  for  it  is  deaf  and  mad,  the  best  way  is  (in  the 
beginning)  to  give  it  time  and  rest,  and  let  it  spend  itself: 
while  the  passion  is  too  hot  to  handle,  we  may  deceive  it; 
but,  however,  let  all  instruments  of  revenge  be  put  out  of  the 
way.  It  is  not  amiss  sometimes  to  pretend  to  be  angry  too; 
and  join  with  him,  not  only  in  the  opinion  of  the  injury,  but 
in  the  seeming  contrivance  of  a  revenge.  But  this  must  be 
a  person  then  that  has  some  authority  over  him.  This  is  a 
way  to  get  time,  and,  by  advising  upon  some  greater  punish- 


SENECA  OF  ANGER  251 

ment,  to  delay  the  present.  If  the  passion  be  outrageous,  try 
what  shame  or  fear  can  do.  If  weak,  it  is  no  hard  matter  to 
amuse  it  by  strange  stories,  grateful  news,  or  pleasant  dis- 
courses. Deceit  in  this  case,  is  friendship;  for  men  must  be 
cozened  to  be  cured. 

The   injuries  that  press  hardest  upon  us  are  those  which 
either  we  have  not  deserved,  or  not  expected, 
or,   at   least,   not   in   so   high   a   degree.     This    Those   injuries 

arises   from   the   love   of  ourselves:   for   every    ^°  nearest  us, 
I  1  •        !•!  •  •     ^1  •  that   we    have 

man  takes  upon  him,  hke  a  pnnce,  m  this  case,        . ,       , 

to    practise    all    liberties,   and    to    allow   none,    ^^^  ^^^  expect- 
which    proceeds  either  from  ignorance  or    in-    ed 
solence.     What  news  is  it  for  people  to  do  ill 
things?   for  an  enemy  to  hurt  us;   nay,  for  a  friend  or  a  serv- 
ant to  transgress,  and  to  prove  treacherous,  ungrateful,  cove- 
tous, impious?     What  we  find  in  one  man  we  may  in  another, 
and  there  is  more  security  in  fortune  than  in  men.     Our  joys 
are  mingled  with  fear,  and  a  tempest  may  arise  out  of  a  calm; 
but  a  skilful  pilot  is  always  provided  for  it. 


CHAP.  X 

Against  rash  judgment 

It  is  good  for  every  man  to  fortify  himself  on  his  weak  side: 
and  if  he  loves  his  peace  he  must  not  be  inquisitive,  and 
hearken  to  tale-bearers;  for  the  man  that  is  over-curious  to 
hear  and  see  every  thing  multiplies  troubles  to  himself:  for  a 
man  does  not  feel  what  he  does  not  know.  He  that  is 
listening  after  private  discourse,  and  what  people  say  of  him, 
shall  never  be  at  peace.  How  many  things  that  are  innocent 
in  themselves  are  made  injuries  yet  by  misconstruction! 
Wherefore,  some  things  we  are  to  pause  upon,  others  to  laugh 
at,  and  others  again  to  pardon.  Or,  if  we  cannot  avoid  the 
sense  of  indignities,  let  us  however  shun  the  open  profession 
of  it  which  may  easily  be  done,  as  appears  by  many  examples 
of  those  that  have  suppressed  their  anger  under  the  awe  of  a 
greater  fear.  It  is  a  good  caution  not  to  believe  any  thing 
until  we  are  very  certain  of  it;  for  many  probable  things  prove 
false,  and  a  short  time  will  make  evidence  of  the  undoubted 
truth.     We  are  prone  to  believe  many  things  which  we  are 


252  SENECA  OF  ANGER 

willing  to  hear,  and  so  we  conclude,  and  take  up  a  prejudice 
before  we  can  judge.  Never  condemn  a  friend  unheard;  or 
without  letting  him  know  his  accuser,  or  his  crime.  It  is 
a  common  thing  to  say,  "  Do  not  you  tell  that  you  had  it  from 
me:  for  if  you  do,  I  will  deny  it,  and  never  tell  you  any  thing 
again:"  by  which  means  friends  are  set  together  by  the  ears, 
and  the  informer  slips  his  neck  out  of  the  collar.  Admit  no 
stories  upon  these  terms;  for  it  is  an  unjust  thing  to  believe 
in  private  and  to  be  angry  openly.  He  that  delivers  himself 
up  to  guess  and  conjecture  runs  a  great  hazard;  for  there 
can  be  no  suspicion  without  some  probable  grounds;  so 
that  without  much  candour  and  simplicity,  and  making  the 
best  of  every  thing,  there  is  no  living  in  society  with  man- 
kind. Some  things  that  offend  us  we  have  by  report;  others 
we  see  or  hear.  In  the  first  case,  let  us  not  be  too  credulous: 
some  people  frame  stories  that  they  may  deceive  us;  others 
only  tell  what  they  hear,  and  are  deceived  themselves:  some 
make  it  their  sport  to  do  ill  offices,  others  do  them  only  to  pick 
a  thank:  there  are  some  that  would  part  the  dearest  friends 
in  the  world;  others  love  to  do  mischief,  and  stand  aloof  off 
to  see  what  comes  of  it.  If  it  be  a  small  matter,  I  would  have 
witnesses;  but  if  it  be  a  greater,  I  would  have  it  upon  oath, 
and  allow  time  to  the  accused,  and  counsel  too,  and  hear  over 
and  over  again. 

In  those  cases  where  we  ourselves  are  witnesses,  we  should 

take  into  consideration  all  the  circumstances. 

Make  the  best         tt  r  -jj      •  •  -r 

r  ,,  •  Ir    a    cbiLa,    it    was    ignorance:   it  a  woman,  a 

of  every  thing  •  ,    7        t    j  1  j  •.         t 

mistake:  ir  done  by  command,  a  necessity;    11 

a  man  be  injured,  it  is  but  quod  pro  quo:  if  a  judge,  he  knows 
what  he  does:  if  a  prince,  I  must  submit;  either  if  guilty,  to 
justice,  or  if  innocent,  to  fortune:  if  a  brute,  I  make  myself  one 
by  imitating  it:  if  a  calamity  or  disease,  my  best  relief  is 
patience:  if  providence,  it  is  both  impious  and  vain  to  be  angry 
at  it:  if  a  good  man,  I  will  make  the  best  of  it:  if  a  bad,  I  will 
never  wonder  at  it.  Nor  is  it  only  by  tales  and  stories  that  we 
are  inflamed,  but  suspicions,  countenances,  nay,  a  look  or  a 
smile,  is  enough  to  blow  us  up.  In  these  cases,  let  us  sus- 
pend our  displeasure,  and  plead  the  cause  of  the  absent. 
"Perhaps  he  is  innocent;  or,  if  not,  I  have  time  to  consider 
of  it,  and  may  take  my  revenge  at  leisure:"  but  when  it  is 
once  executed,  it  is  not  to  be  recalled.  A  jealous  head  is  apt 
to  take  that  to  himself  which  was  never  meant  him.  Let  us 
therefore  trust  to  nothing  but  what  we  see,  and   chide  our- 


SENECA  OF  ANGER  253 

selves  where  we  are  over-credulous.  By  this  course  we  shall 
not  be  so  easily  imposed  upon,  nor  put  to  trouble  ourselves 
about  things  not  worth  the  while:  as  the  loitering  of  a  ser- 
vant upon  an  errand,  and  the  tumbling  of  a  bed,  or  the  spilling 
of  a  glass  of  drink.  It  is  a  madness  to  be  disordered  at 
these  fooleries;  we  consider  the  thing  done,  and  not  the 
doer  of  it.  "It  may  be  he  did  it  unwillingly,  or  by  chance. 
It  was  a  trick  put  upon  him,  or  he  was  forced  to  it.  He  did 
it  for  reward  perhaps,  not  hatred;  nor  of  his  own  accord,  but 
he  was  egged  on  to  it."  Nay,  some  regard  must  be  had  to  the 
age  of  the  person,  or  to  fortune;  and  we  must  consult  human- 
ity and  candour  in  the  case.  One  does  me  a  great  mischief  at 
unawares;  another  does  me  a  very  small  one  by  design,  or 
peradventure  none  at  all,  but  intended  me  one.  The  latter 
was  more  in  fault,  but  I  will  be  angry  with  neither.  We 
must  distinguish  betwixt  what  a  man  cannot  do  and  what  he 
zvill  not.  "It  is  true,  he  has  once  offended  me;  but  how 
often  has  he  pleased  me?  He  has  offended  me  often,  and  in 
other  kinds;  and  why  should  not  I  bear  it  as  well  now  as  I 
have  done?"  Is  he  my  friend?  why  then,  "It  was  against 
his  will."  Is  he  my  enemy?  It  is  "no  more  than  I  looked  for." 
Let  us  give  way  to  wise  men,  and  not  squabble  with  fools; 
and  say  thus  to  ourselves,  "We  have  all  of  us  our  errors." 
No  man  is  so  circumspect,  so  considerate,  or  so  fearful  of 
offending,  but  he  has  much  to  answer  for,  A  generous 
prisoner  cannot  immediately  comply  with  all  the  sordid  and 
laborious  offices  of  a  slave.  A  footman  that  is  not  breath- 
ed cannot  keep  pace  with  his  master's  horse.  He  that  is  over 
watched  may  be  allowed  to  be  drowsy.  All  these  things  are 
to  be  weighed  before  we  give  any  ear  to  the  first  impulse. 
If  it  be  my  duty  to  love  my  country,  I  must  be  kind  also  to 
my  countrymen;  if  a  veneration  be  due  to  the  whole,  so  is  a 
piety  also  to  the  parts:  and  it  is  the  common  interest  to 
preserve  them.  We  are  all  members  of  one  body,  and  it  is  as 
natural  to  help  one  another  as  for  the  hands  to  help  the  feet, 
or  the  eyes  the  hands.  Without  the  love  and  care  of  the  parts, 
the  whole  can  never  be  preserved,  and  we  must  spare  one 
another,  because  we  are  born  for  society,  which  cannot  be 
maintained  without  a  regard  to  particulars.  Let  this  be  a 
rule  to  us,  never  to  deny  a  pardon,  that  does  no  hurt  either  to 
the  giver  or  receiver.  That  may  be  well  enough  in  one  which 
is  ill  in  another;  and  therefore  we  are  not  to  condemn  any 
thing  that  is  common  to  a  nation;    for  custom  defends  it. 


254  SENECA  OF  ANGER 

But  much  more  pardonable  are  those  things  which  are  com- 
mon to  mankind. 

It  is  a  kind  of  spiteful  comfort,  that  whoever  does  me  an 
injury    may    receive    one;   and    that    there    is 
Whoever    does       ^    power    over    him    that    is    above    me.     A 
an  injury,  is  ha-  u      i  j       ^      j  c  •      ^        ii      • 

ui  J  ...-ff.,  ^^.     mzn    should    stand  as    hrm    agamst    ail    m- 
ble  to  sujjer  one        ....  ,  .  ° 

dignities  as  a  rock  does  against  the  waves. 
As  it  is  some  satisfaction  to  a  man  in  a  mean  condition  that 
there  is  no  security  in  a  more  prosperous;  and  as  the  loss  of 
a  son  in  a  corner  is  borne  with  more  patience  upon  the  sight 
of  a  funeral  carried  out  of  a  palace;  so  are  injuries  and  con- 
tempts the  more  tolerable  from  a  meaner  person,  when  we 
consider,  that  the  greatest  men  and  fortunes  are  not  exempt. 
The  wisest  also  of  mortals  have  their  failings,  and  no  man 
living  is  without  the  same  excuse.  The  difference  is,  that 
we  do  not  all  of  us  transgress  the  same  way;  but  we  are 
obliged  in  humanity  to  bear  with  one  another.  We  should, 
every  one  of  us,  bethink  ourselves,  how  remiss  we  have  been 
in  our  duties,  how  immodest  in  our  discourses,  how  intemper- 
ate in  our  cups;  and  why  not,  as  well,  how  extravagant  we 
have  been  in  our  passions.  Let  us  clear  ourselves  of  this 
evil,  purge  our  minds,  and  utterly  root  out  all  those  vices, 
which  upon  leaving  the  least  sting,  will  grow  again  and 
recover.  We  must  think  of  every  thing,  expect  every  thing, 
that  we  may  not  be  surprised.  It  is  a  shame,  says  Fabius, 
for  a  commander  to  excuse  himself  by  saying,  "I  was  not 
aware  of  it." 


CHAP.  XI 

Take  nothing  ill  from  another  man,  until  you  have 
made  it  your  own  case 

It  is  not  prudent  to  deny  a  pardon  to  any  man,  without 
first  examining  if  we  stand  not  in  need  of  it  ourselves;  for  it 
may  be  our  lot  to  ask  it,  even  at  his  feet  to  whom  we  refuse 
it.  But  we  are  willing  enough  to  do  what  we  are  very  unwill- 
ing to  suffer.  It  is  unreasonable  to  charge  public  vices  upon 
particular  persons;  for  we  are  all  of  us  wicked,  and  that 
which  we  blame  in  others  we  find  in  ourselves.  It  is  not  a 
paleness  in  one,  or  a  leanness  in  another,  but  a  pestilence  that 


SENECA  OF  ANGER  255 

has  laid  hold  upon  all.  It  is  a  wicked  world,  and  we  make 
part  of  it;  and  the  way  to  be  quiet  is  to  bear  one  with  an- 
other. "Such  a  man,"  we  cry,  "has  done  me  a  shrewd 
turn,  and  I  never  did  him  any  hurt."  Well,  but  it  may  be  I 
have  mischieved  other  people,  or,  at  least,  I  may  live  to  do 
as  much  to  him  as  that  comes  to,  "Such  a  one  has  spoken 
ill  things  of  me;"  but  if  I  first  speak  ill  of  him,  as  I  do  of 
many  others,  this  it  not  an  injury,  but  a  repayment.  What 
if  he  did  overshoot  himself?  He  was  loth  to  lose  his  conceit 
perhaps,  but  there  was  no  malice  in  it;  and  if  he  had  not 
done  me  a  mischief,  he  must  have  done  himself  one.  How 
many  good  offices  are  there  that  look  like  injuries?  Nay,  how 
many  have  been  reconciled  and  good  friends  after  a  profess- 
ed hatred? 

Before  we  lay  any  thing  to  heart,  let  us  ask  ourselves  if  we 
have    not    done  the    same    thing    to    others. 
But   where    shall    we    find    an    equal    judge?    ^^^  ^'^  ^^^  '^°'^' 
He    that     loves     another    man's    wife     (only    d'^;^  another, 
,  ,        .  1      J  \        -11  rr-        1  •       zvitbout  making 

because   she  is   another  s)   will  not  suffer  his    ^^  j^^^  ^^^^  ^^^/ 

own  to  be  so  much  looked  upon.  No  man 
is  so  fierce  against  calumny  as  the  evil  speaker;  none  so 
strict  exactors  of  modesty  in  a  servant  as  those  that  are  most 
prodigal  of  their  own.  We  carry  our  neighbours'  crimes  in 
sight,  and  we  throw  our  own  over  our  shoulders.  The  in- 
temperance of  a  bad  son  is  chastised  by  a  worse  father;  and 
the  luxury  that  we  punish  in  others,  we  allow  to  ourselves. 
The  tyrant  exclaims  against  homicide;  and  sacrilege  against 
theft.  We  are  angry  with  the  persons,  but  not  with  the 
faults. 

Some  things  there  are  that  cannot  hurt  us,  and  others  will 
not;     as    good    magistrates,    parents,    tutors, 
judges;      whose      reproof    or     correction     we    ^°^^   things 
are    to   take    as   we    do    abstinence,    bleeding,    ^^^]^ot  hurt  us 
11  ,  .  I  •   1  1         <2""  others  will 

and    other   uneasy   things,   which    we    are   the    ^^^ 

better  for.  In  which  cases,  we  are  not  so 
much  to  reckon  upon  what  we  suffer  as  upon  what  we  have 
done.  "I  take  it  ill,"  says  one;  and,  "I  have  done  nothing," 
says  another:  when,  at  the  same  time,  we  make  it  worse,  by 
adding  arrogance  and  contumacy  to  our  first  error.  We  cry 
out  presently,  "What  law  have  we  transgressed?"  As  if  the 
letter  of  the  law  were  the  sum  of  our  duty,  and  that  piety, 
humanity,  liberality,  justice,  and  faith,  were  things  beside 
our  J?usiness.     No,    no;   the    rule    of    human    duty    is    of   a 


256  SENECA  OF  ANGER 

greater  latitude;  and  we  have  many  obligations  upon  us  that 
are  not  to  be  found  in  the  statute-hooks.  And  yet  we  fall 
short  of  the  exactness  even  of  that  legal  innocency.  We 
have  intended  one  thing  and  done  another;  wherein  only 
the  want  of  success  has  kept  us  from  being  criminals.  This 
very  thing,  methinks,  should  make  us  more  favourable  to 
delinquents,  and  to  forgive  not  only  ourselves,  but  the  gods 
too;  of  whom  we  seem  to  have  harder  thoughts  in  taking 
that  to  be  a  particular  evil  directed  to  us,  that  befals  us  only 
by  the  common  law  of  mortality.  In  fine,  no  man  living  can 
absolve  himself  to  his  conscience,  though  to  the  world  per- 
haps, he  may.  It  is  true,  that  we  are  also  condemned  to 
pains  and  diseases,  and  to  death  too,  which  is  no  more  than 
the  quitting  of  the  soul's  house.  But  why  should  any  man 
complain  of  bondage,  that,  wheresoever  he 
looks,  has  his  way  open  to  liberty?  That 
precipice,  that  sea,  that  river,  that  well,  there  is  freedom  in 
the  bottom  of  it.  It  hangs  upon  every  crooked  bow;  and 
not  only  a  man's  throat,  or  his  heart,  but  every  vein  in  his 
body  opens  a  passage  to  it. 

To  conclude,  where  my  proper  virtue  fails  me,  I  will  have 
recourse  to  examples,  and  say  to  myself,  Am  I  greater  than 
Philip  or  Augustus,  who  both  of  them  put  up  greater  re- 
proaches? Many  have  pardoned  their  enemies,  and  shall  not 
I  forgive  a  neglect,  a  little  freedom  of  the  tongue  ?  Nay,  the 
patience  but  of  a  second  thought  does  the  business;  for 
though  the  first  shock  be  violent,  take  it  in  parts,  and  it  is 
subdued.  And,  to  wind  up  all  in  one  word,  the  great  lesson 
of  mankind,  as  well  in  this  as  in  all  other  cases,  is,  "to  do  as 
we  would  be  done  by." 


CHAP.  XII 

Of  Cruelty 

There  is  so  near  an  affinity  betwixt  anger  and  cruelty,  that 
many  people  confound  them;  as  if  cruelty  were  only  the 
execution  of  anger  in  the  payment  of  a  revenge:  which  holds 
in  some  cases,  but  not  in  others.  There  are  a  sort  of  men 
that  take  delight  in  the  spilling  of  human  blood,  and  in  the 
death  of  those  that  never  did  them  any  injury,  nor  were  ever 


SENECA  OF  ANGER  257 

so  much  as  suspected  for  it;  as  Apollodorus,  Phalaris,  Sinis, 
Procrustus,  and  others,  that  burnt  men  aUve;  whom  we  can- 
not so  properly  call  angry  as  brutal.  For  anger  does  neces- 
sarily presuppose  an  injury,  either  done,  or  conceived,  or 
feared:  but  the  other  takes  pleasure  in  tormenting,  without 
so  much  as  pretending  any  provocation  to  it,  and  kills  merely 
for  killing  sake.  The  original  of  this  cruelty  perhaps  was 
anger;  which,  by  frequent  exercise  and  custom,  has  lost  all 
sense  of  humanity  and  mercy;  and  they  that  are  thus  affected 
are  so  far  from  the  countenance  and  appearance  of  men  in 
anger,  that  they  will  laugh,  rejoice,  and  entertain  themselves 
with  the  most  horrid  spectacles;  as  rocks,  gaols,  gibbets,  several 
sorts  of  chains  and  punishments,  dilaceration  of  members,  stig- 
matizing, arid  wild  beasts,  with  other  exquisite  inventions  of 
torture:  and  yet  at  last  the  cruelty  itself  is  more  horrid  and 
odious  than  the  means  by  which  it  works.  It  is  a  bestial 
madness  to  love  mischief;  beside,  that  it  is  womanish  to  rage 
and  tear.  A  generous  beast  will  scorn  to  do  it  when  he  has 
any  thing  at  his  mercy.  It  is  a  vice  for  wolves  and  tigers; 
and  no  less  abominable  to  the  world  than  dangerous  to  itself. 

The  Romans  had  their  morning  and  their  meridian  specta- 
cles. In  the  former,  they  had  their  combats 
of  men  with  wild  beasts;  and  in  the  latter,  '^^e  cruelty 
the  men  fought  one  with  another.  "I  went,"  Lfdacles 
says  our  author,  "the  other  day  to  the  me- 
ridian spectacles,  in  hope  of  meeting  somewhat  of  mirth  and 
diversion  to  sweeten  the  humours  of  those  that  had  been 
entertained  with  blood  in  the  morning;  but  it  proved 
otherwise;  for,  compared  with  this  inhumanity,  the  former 
was  a  mercy.  The  whole  business  was  only  murder  upon 
murder;  the  combatants  fought  naked,  and  every  blow  was 
a  wound.  They  do  not  contend  for  victory,  but  for  death; 
and  he  that  kills  one  man  is  to  be  killed  by  another.  By 
wounds  they  are  forced  upon  wounds  which  they  take  and 
give  upon  their  bare  breasts.  Burn  that  rogue,  they  cry. 
What!  Is  he  afraid  of  his  flesh?  Do  but  see  how  sneakingly 
that  rascal  dies.  Look  to  yourselves,  my  masters,  and  con- 
sider of  it:  who  knows  but  this  may  come  to  be  your  own 
case?"  Wicked  examples  seldom  fail  of  coming  home  at 
last  to  the  authors.  To  destroy  a  single  man  may  be  dan- 
gerous; but  to  murder  whole  nations  is  only  a  more  glorious 
wickedness.  Private  avarice  and  rigour  are  condemned;  but 
oppression,  when  it  comes  to  be  authorized  by  an  act  of  state, 


2S8  SENECA  OF  ANGER 

and  to  be  publicly  commanded,  though  particularly  forbidden, 
becomes  a  point  of  dignity  and  honour.  What  a  shame  is  it 
for  men  to  interworry  one  another,  when  yet  the  fiercest 
even  of  beasts  are  at  peace  with  those  of  their  own  kind? 
This  brutal  fury  puts  philosophy  itself  to  a  stand.  The 
drunkard,  the  glutton,  the  covetous,  may  be  reduced;  nay, 
and  the  mischief  of  it  is,  that  no  vice  keeps  itself  within  its 
proper  bounds.  Luxury  runs  into  avarice,  and  when  the 
reverence  of  virtue  is  extinguished,  men  will  stick  at  nothing 
that  carries  profit  along  with  it.  Man's  blood  is  shed  in 
wantonness,  his  death  is  a  spectacle  for  entertainment,  and 
his  groans  are  music.  When  Alexander  delivered  up  Lysi- 
machus  to  a  lion,  how  glad  would  he  have  been  to  have  had 
nails  and  teeth  to  have  devoured  him  himself;  it  would  have 
too  much  derogated,  he  thought,  from  the  dignity  of  his 
wrath,  to  have  appointed  a  man  for  the  execution  of  his 
friend.  Private  cruelties,  it  is  true,  cannot  do  much  mischief, 
but  in  princes  they  are  a  war  against  mankind. 

C.  Caesar  would  commonly,  for  exercise  and  pleasure,  put 

senators  and  Roman  knights  to  the    torture;  and 

UT  arous  whip  several  of  them  like  slaves,  or  put  them  to 

CTttCLt'lCS  • 

death  with  the  most  acute  torments,  merely  for 
the  satisfaction  of  his  cruelty.  That  Caesar  that  "wished  the 
people  of  Rome  had  but  one  neck,  that  he  might  cut  it  off  at 
one  blow;"  it  was  the  employment,  the  study,  and  the  joy 
of  his  life.  He  would  not  so  much  as  give  the  expiring  leave 
to  groan,  but  caused  their  mouths  to  be  stopped  with 
spunges,  or  for  want  of  them,  with  rags  of  their  own  clothes, 
that  they  might  not  breathe  out  so  much  as  their  last  agonies 
at  liberty;  or,  perhaps,  lest  the  tormented  should  speak 
something  which  the  tormentor  had  no  mind  to  hear.  Nay, 
he  was  so  impatient  of  delay,  that  he  would  frequently 
rise  from  supper  to  have  men  killed  by  torch-light,  as  if  his 
life  and  death  had  depended  upon  their  dispatch  before  the 
next  morning.  To  say  nothing  how  many  fathers  were  put 
to  death  in  the  same  night  with  their  sons  (which  was  a  kind 
of  mercy  in  the  prevention  of  their  mourning.)  And  was  not 
Sylla's  cruelty  prodigious  too,  which  was  only  stopt  for  want 
of  enemies?  He  caused  seven  thousand  citizens  of  Rome  to 
be  slaughtered  at  once;  and  some  of  the  senators  being  start- 
led at  their  cries  that  were  heard  in  the  senate-house:  "Let 
us  mind  our  business,"  says  Sylla;  "this  is  nothing  but  a 
few  mutineers  that  I  have  ordered  to  be  sent  out  of  the  way." 


SENECA  OF  ANGER  259 

A  glorious  spectacle!  says  Hannibal,  when  he  saw  the  trenches 
flowing  with  human  blood;  and  if  the  rivers  had  run  blood 
too,  he  would  have  liked  it  so  much  the  better. 

Among  the  famous  and  detestable  speeches  that  are  com- 
mitted to  memory,  I  know  none  worse  than 

that    impudent    and    tyrannical   maxim,    "Let    ^^  ^*f/  threat- 
11  If  »  ^  ^fis  all,  fears 

them   hate  me,   so  they   tear  me;        not   con-    ^^ 

sidering  that  those  that  are  kept  in  obedience 
by  fear,  are  both  malicious  and  mercenary,  and  only  wait 
for  an  opportunity  to  change  their  master.  Beside  that, 
whosoever  is  terrible  to  others  is  likewise  afraid  of  himself. 
What  is  more  ordinary  than  for  a  tyrant  to  be  destroyed  by 
his  own  guards?  which  is  no  more  than  the  putting  those 
crimes  into  practice  which  they  learned  of  their  masters. 
How  many  slaves  have  revenged  themselves  of  their  cruel 
oppressors,  though  they  were  sure  to  die  for  it!  but  when  it 
comes  once  to  a  popular  tyranny,  whole  nations  conspire 
against  it.  For  "whosoever  threatens  all,  is  in  danger  of 
all;"  over  and  above,  that  the  cruelty  of  a  prince  increases 
the  number  of  his  enemies,  by  destroying  some  of  them;  for 
it  entails  an  hereditary  hatred  upon  the  friends  and  rela- 
tions of  those  that  are  taken  away.  And  then  it  has  this 
misfortune,  that  a  man  must  be  wicked  upon  necessity;  for 
there  is  no  going  back;  so  that  he  must  betake  himself  to 
arms,  and  yet  he  lives  in  fear.  He  can  neither  trust  to  the 
faith  of  his  friends,  nor  to  the  piety  of  his  children;  he  both 
dreads  death  and  wishes  it;  and  becomes  a  greater  terror  to 
himself  than  he  is  to  his  people.  Nay,  if  there  were  nothing 
else  to  make  cruelty  detestable,  it  were  enough  that  it  passes 
all  bounds,  both  of  custom  and  humanity;  and  is  followed 
upon  the  heel  with  sword  or  poison.  A  private  malice  in- 
deed does  not  move  whole  cities;  but  that  which  extends  to 
all  is  every  body's  mark.  One  sick  person  gives  no  great 
disturbance  in  a  family;  but  when  it  comes  to  a  depopulating 
plague,  all  people  fly  from  it.  And  why  should  a  prince  ex- 
pect any  man  to  be  good  whom  he  has  taught  to  be  wicked? 
But  what  if  it  were  safe  to  be  cruel?  were  it  not  still  a  sad 
thing,  the  very  state  of  such  a  governme^it? 
A  government  that  bears  the  image  of  a  Tyrannical^  go- 
taken  city,  where  there  is  nothing  but  sorrow,  ^^^'^^^'"■^  ^^  "■ 
trouble,  and  confusion.  Men  dare  not  so  of  ^,ar 
much  as  trust  themselves  with  their  friends 
or  with  their  pleasures.     There  is  not  any  entertainment  so 


26o  SENECA  OF  ANGER 

innocent  but  It  affords  pretence  of  crime  and  danger.  Peo* 
pie  are  betrayed  at  their  tables  and  in  their  cups,  and  drawn 
from  the  very  theatre  to  the  prison.  How  horrid  a  madness 
is  it  to  be  still  raging  and  killing;  to  have  the  rattling  of 
chains  always  in  our  ears;  bloody  spectacles  before  our  eyes; 
and  to  carry  terror  and  dismay  wherever  we  go?  If  we  had 
lions  and  serpents,  to  rule  over  us,  this  would  be  the  manner 
of  their  governments,  saving  that  they  agree  better  among 
themselves.  It  passes  for  a  mark  of  greatness  to  burn  cities, 
and  lay  whole  kingdoms  waste;  nor  is  it  for  the  honour  of  a 
prince  to  appoint  this  or  that  single  man  to  be  killed,  unless 
they  have  whole  troops,  or  (sometimes)  legions,  to  work  upon. 
But  it  is  not  the  spoils  of  war  and  bloody  trophies  that  make 
a  prince  glorious,  but  the  divine  power  of  preserving  unity 
and  peace.  Ruin  without  distinction,  is  more  properly  the 
business  of  a  general  deluge,  or  a  conflagration.  Neither 
does  a  fierce  and  inexorable  anger  become  the  supreme  magis- 
trate; "Greatness  of  mind  is  always  meek  and  humble; 
but  cruelty  is  a  note  and  an  effect  of  weakness,  and  brings 
down  a  governor  to  the  level  of  a  competitor." 


24<5  SENECA  OP  ANGEB. 

innocent  but  it  affords  pretence  of  crime  and  danger.  Peo- 
pie  are  betrayed  at  their  tables  and  in  their  cubs,  md  drawn 
llut^l  ^^--y //'^«'re  to  the  prison.  How  horrid  TmSs" 
IS  1  to  be  still  raging  and  killing;  to  have  the  rattlinrof 

and  to  carry  terror  and  dwnay  wherever  we  go  '  If  we  had 
Wand  serpe^Us,  to  rule  over  us,  this  would  be  the  manner 
of  thejr  government,  saving  that  they  agree  be  ter^mon" 

ana  lay  wiioteAmgdoms  waste ;  nor  is  it  for  the  honour  of  a 

FhrLveS";/'"  ''  'Y  ^'"-"'^  '"^^  ^°  be  killed  Infest 
they  have  whole  troops,  or  (sometimes)  /egiorw,  to  work  imon 
But  rt  IS  no  the  spoils  of  war  and  bloody  tropkTestZt  make 
a  pence  glorwus,  but  the  rfmne  power  o[  preserving  Sv 
and  peace  Rum  without  d«imdf.«,  is  more  prSv  th? 
business  of  a  general  deluge,  or  a  co^/agro^fo^r^Sther 
fra!  ^  ^.T. ',"1  •nexorable  a.ger  becom-^  tL  siipremen^^Z 
irae,  "Greatness  of  mmd  is  always  meek  and  humble- 
but  cruelty  .s  a  note  and  an  effect  of  weakness,  and  Ees 
down  a  governor  to  the  level  of  a  competitor."  ^ 


SENECA  OF  CLEIHENCT. 


i.  HE  humanity  and  excellence  of  this  virtue  Js  Confessed 
at  all  hands,  as  well  by  the  men  of  pleasure,  and  those  that 
think  every  man  was  made  for  himself,  as  by  the  Stoics,  that 
make  "  man  a  sociable  creature,  and  born  for  the  Gommoa 
good  of  mankind :"  for  it  is  of  all  dispositions  the  mostyeoce- 
able  and  quiet.  But  before  we  enter  any  farther  upon  the 
discourse,  it  should  be  first  known  what  clemency  is,  that  we 
may  distinguish  it  from  />i7y;  which  is  &  weakness,  though 
many  times  mistaken  for  a  virlue :  and  the  next  thing  will  be, 
to  bring  the  mind  to  the  habU  and  exercise  of  it. 

"  Clemency  is  a  favourable  disposition  of  the  mind,  in  the 
matter  of  inflicting  punishment ;  or,  a  modera-  cUnuntiM 
lion  that  remits  somewhat  of  the  penalty  incur-  cleaned 
red ;  as  pardon  is  the  total  remission  of  a  deserv-  -^ 
ed  punishment."  We  must  be  careful  not  to  confound  cle- 
mency with  pity ;  for  as  religion  worships  God,  and  svperstUion 
profanes  that  worship ;  so  should  we  distinguish  betwixt  tZc- 
mency  and  pity;  practising  the  one,  and  avoiding  the  other. 
For  pity  proceeds  from  a  narrowness  of  mind,  that  respects 
rather  the  fortune  than  the  cause.  It  is  a  kind  of  moral  sick- 
ness, contracted  from  other  people's  misfortune:  such  another 
weakness  as  laughing  or  yawning  for  company,  or  as  that  of 
sick  eyes  that  cannot  look  upon  others  that  are  bleared  with- 
out dropping  themselves.  I  will  give  a  shipwrecked  man  a 
plank,  a  lodging  to  a  stranger,  or  a  piece  of  money  to  him 
that  wants  it:  1  will  dry  up  the  tears  of  my  friend,  yet  £ 
will  not  weep  with  him,  but  treat  him  with  constancy  and 
humanity,  as  one  man  ought  to  treat  another. 

It  is  objected  by  sOme,  that  clemency  is  an  inSigniBcant  vip» 


SENECA    OF    CLEMENCY 


Ti 


HE  humanity  and  excellence  of  this  virtue  is  confessed 
at  all  hands,  as  well  by  the  men  of  pleasure,  and  those  that 
think  every  man  was  made  for  himself,  as  by  the  Stoics,  that 
make  "man  a  sociable  creature,  and  born  for  the  common 
good  of  mankind:"  for  it  is  of  all  dispositions  the  most  peace- 
able and  quiet.  But  before  we  enter  any  farther  upon  the 
discourse,  it  should  be  first  known  what  clemency  is,  that  we 
may  distinguish  it  from  pity;  which  is  a  weakness,  though 
many  times  mistaken  for  a  virtue:  and  the  next  thing  will  be, 
to  bring  the  mind  to  the  habit  and  exercise  of  it. 

"Clemency  is  a  favourable  disposition  of  the  mind,  in  the 
matter  of  inflicting  punishment;  or,  a  modera- 
tion  that  remits  somewhat  of  the  penalty  incur-  ,  ^T''^P 
red;  as  pardon  is  the  total  remission  of  a  deserv- 
ed punishment,"  We  must  be  careful  not  to  confound  cle- 
mency with  pity;  for  as  religion  worships  God,  and  superstition 
profanes  that  worship;  so  should  we  distinguish  betwixt  cle- 
mency and  pity;  practising  the  one,  and  avoiding  the  other. 
For  pity  proceeds  from  a  narrowness  of  mind,  that  respects 
rather  the  fortune  than  the  cause.  It  is  a  kind  of  moral  sick- 
ness, contracted  from  other  people's  misfortune:  such  another 
weakness  as  laughing  or  yawning  for  company,  or  as  that  of 
sick  eyes  that  cannot  look  upon  others  that  are  bleared  with- 
out dropping  themselves.  I  will  give  a  shipwrecked  man  a 
plank,  a  lodging  to  a  stranger,  or  a  piece  of  money  to  him 
that  wants  it:  I  will  dry  up  the  tears  of  my  friend,  yet  I 
will  not  weep  with  him,  but  treat  him  with  constancy  and 
humanity,  as  one  man  ought  to  treat  another. 

It  is  objected  by  some,  that  clemency  is  an  insignificant  vir- 
tue;   and   that   only   the   bad    are   the   better 
for    it,    for    the    good     have    no    need    of    it.    CU^f^p  is  pro- 
D\xt  m  the  first  place,  as  physic  is  in  use  only 


264  SENECA  OF  CLEMENCY 

among  the  sick,  and  yet  in  honour  with  the  sound,  so  the 
innocent  have  a  reverence  for  clemency,  though  criminals 
are  properly  the  objects  of  it.  And  then  again,  a  man  may 
be  innocent,  and  yet  have  occasion  for  it  too;  for  by  the  ac- 
cidents of  fortune,  or  the  condition  of  times,  virtue  itself 
may  come  to  be  in  danger.  Consider  the  most  populous  city 
or  nation;  what  a  solitude  would  it  be  if  none  should  be  left 
there  but  those  that  could  stand  the  test  of  a  severe  justice? 
We  should  have  neither  judges  nor  accusers;  none  either  to 
grant  a  pardon  or  to  ask  it.  More  or  less,  we  are  all  sinners; 
and  he  that  has  best  purged  his  conscience,  was  brought  by 
errors  to  repentance.  And  it  is  farther  profitable  to  man- 
kind; for  many  delinquents  come  to  be  converted.  There 
is  a  tenderness  to  be  used  even  toward  our  slaves,  and  those 
that  we  have  bought  with  our  money:  how  much  more  then 
to  free  and  to  honest  men,  that  are  rather  under  our  protec- 
tion than  dominion?  Not  that  I  would  have  it  so  general 
neither  as  not  to  distinguish  betwixt  the  good  and  the  bad; 
for  that  would  introduce  a  confusion,  and  give  a  kind  of  en- 
couragement to  wickedness.  It  must  therefore  have  a  re- 
spect to  the  quality  of  the  offender,  and  separate  the  curable 
from  the  desperate;  for  it  is  an  equal  cruelty  to  pardon  all 
and  to  pardon  none.  Where  the  matter  is  in  balance,  let 
mercy  turn  the  scale:  if  all  wicked  men  should  be  punished, 
who  should  escape? 

Though  mercy  and  gentleness  of  nature  keeps  all  in  peace 

and    tranquillity,    even    in    a    cottage;   yet    it 

Clemency   does      is     much     more     beneficial     and     conspicuous 

well  in  private      jj^    ^    palace.     Private   men   in    their   condition 

persons,  out  it  ,.,         .  .  ....  ,     . 

is  more  beneficial  ^^^ .  likewise  private  m  their  virtues  and  in 
in  princes  their   vices;   but    the    words    and    the    actions 

of  princes  are  the  subject  of  public  rumour; 
and  therefore  they  had  need  have  a  care,  what  occasion  they 
give  people  for  discourse,  of  whom  people  will  be  always  a 
talking.  There  is  the  government  of  a  prince  over  his  people, 
a  father  over  his  children,  a  master  over  his  scholars,  an  officer 
over  his  soldiers.  He  is  an  unnatural  father,  that  for  every 
trifle  beats  his  children.  Who  is  the  better  master,  he  that 
rages  over  his  scholars  for  but  missing  a  word  in  a  lesson,  or 
he  that  tries  by  admonition  and  fair  words,  to  instruct  and 
reform  them?  An  outrageous  officer  makes  his  men  run  from 
their  colours.  A  skilful  rider  brings  his  horse  to  obedience 
by  mingling  fair  means  with  foul;   whereas  to  be  perpetually 


SENECA  OF  CLEMENCY  265 

switching  and  spurring,  makes  him  vicious  and  jadish:  and 
shall  we  not  have  more  care  of  men  than  of  beasts?  It 
breaks  the  hope  of  generous  incHnations,  when  they  are  de- 
pressed by  servility  and  terror.  There  is  no  creature  so  hard 
to  be  pleased  with  ill  usage  as  man. 

Clemency  does  well  with  all,  but  best  with  princes;    for  it 
makes    ,their     power    comfortable    and    bene- 
ficial,   which    would    otherwise     be    the    pest    ^'^^^<^y  ^^  '^^  ^'«* 

of    mankind.     It    establishes    their    greatness,    ^^^"^  *°'^  °^ 

,  ,  ,  ,  1        r      1  II-       prince  and  peo' 

when    they    make    the    good    or    the    public    >,/^ 

their  particular  care,  and  employ  their 
power  for  the  safety  of  the  people.  The  prince,  in  effect,  is 
but  the  soul  of  the  community,  as  the  community  is  only  the 
body  of  the  prince;  so  that  being  merciful  to  others,  he  is 
tender  of  himself:  nor  is  any  man  so  mean  but  his  master 
feels  the  loss  of  him,  as  a  part  of  his  empire:  and  he  takes 
care  not  only  of  the  lives  of  his  people,  but  also  of  their  re- 
putation. Now,  giving  for  granted  that  all  virtues  are  in 
themselves  equal,  it  will  not  yet  be  denied,  that  they  may  be 
more  beneficial  to  mankind  in  one  person  than  in  another. 
A  beggar  may  be  as  magnanimous  as  a  king:  for  what  can  be 
greater  or  braver  than  to  baffle  ill  fortune?  This  does  not 
hinder  but  that  a  man  in  authority  and  plenty  has  more  mat- 
ter for  his  generosity  to  work  upon  than  a  private  person; 
and  it  is  also  more  taken  notice  of  upon  the  bench  than  upon 
the  level.  When  a  gracious  prince  shows  himself  to  his  peo- 
ple, they  do  not  fly  from  him  as  from  a  tiger  that  rouses  him- 
self out  of  his  den,  but  they  worship  him  as  a  benevolent  in- 
fluence; they  secure  him  against  all  conspiracies,  and  inter- 
pose their  bodies  betwixt  him  and  danger.  They  guard  him 
while  he  sleeps,  and  defend  him  in  the  field  against  his  ene- 
mies. Nor  is  it  without  reason,  this  unanimous  agreement  in 
love  and  loyalty,  and  this  heroical  zeal  of  abandoning  them- 
selves for  the  safety  of  their  prince;  but  it  is  as  well  the  in- 
terest of  the  people.  In  the  breath  of  a  prince  there  is  life 
and  death;  and  his  sentence  stands  good,  right  or  wrong.  If 
he  be  angry,  nobody  dares  advise  him;  and  if  he  does  amiss, 
who  shall  call  him  to  account?  Now,  for  him  that  has  so 
much  mischief  in  his  power,  and  yet  applies  that  power  to  the 
common  utility  and  comfort  of  his  people,  diff"using  also  cle- 
mency and  goodness  into  their  hearts  too,  what  can  be  a 
greater  blessing  to  mankind  than  such  a  prince?     Any  man 


266  SENECA  OF  CLEMENCY 

may  kill  another  against  the  law,  but  only  a  prince  can  save 
him  so.  Let  him  so  deal  with  his  own  subjects  as  he  desires 
God  should  deal  with  him.  If  heaven  should  be  inexorable 
to  sinners,  and  destroy  all  without  mercy,  what  flesh  could 
be  safe?  But  as  the  faults  of  great  men  are  not  presently  pun- 
ished with  thunder  from  above,  let  them  have  a  like  regard  to 
their  inferiors  here  upon  earth.  He  that  has  revenge  in  his 
power,  and  does  not  use  it,  is  the  great  man.  Which  is  the 
more  beautiful  and  agreeable  state,  that  of  a  calm,  a  temper- 
ate, and  a  clear  day;  or  that  of  lightning,  thunder,  and  tem- 
pests? and  this  is  the  very  difference  betwixt  a  moderate  and 
a  turbulent  government.  It  is  for  low  and  vulgar  spirits  to 
brawl,  storm,  and  transport  themselves:  but  it  is  not  for  the 
majesty  of  a  prince  to  lash  out  into  intemperance  of  words. 
Some  will  think  it  rather  slavery  than  empire  to  be  debarred 
liberty  of  speech:  and  what  if  it  be,  when  government  itself 
is  but  a  more  illustrious  servitude?  He  that  uses  his  power  as 
he  should,  takes  as  much  delight  in  making  it  comfortable  to 
his  people  as  glorious  to  himself.  He  is  affable  and  easy  of 
access;  his  very  countenance  makes  him  the  joy  of  his  peo- 
ple's eyes,  and  the  delight  of  mankind.  He  is  beloved,  de- 
fended, and  reverenced  by  all  his  subjects;  and  men  speak 
as  well  of  him  in  private  as  in  public.  He  is  safe  without 
guards,  and  the  sword  is  rather  his  ornament  than  his  de- 
fence. In  his  duty,  he  is  like  that  of  a  good  father,  that 
sometimes  gently  reproves  a  son,  sometimes  threatens  him; 
nay,  and  perhaps  corrects  him:  but  no  father  in  his  right 
wits  will  disinherit  a  son  for  the  first  fault:  there  must  be 
many  and  great  offences,  and  only  desperate  consequences, 
that  should  bring  him  to  that  decretory  resolution.  He  will 
make  many  experiments  to  try  if  he  can  reclaim  him  first, 
and  nothing  but  the  utmost  despair  must  put  him  upon  ex- 
tremities. It  is  not  flattery  that  calls  a  prince  the  father  of 
his  country;  the  titles  of  great  and  august  are  matter  of  com- 
pliment and  of  honour;  but  in  calling  him  father,  we  mind 
him  of  that  moderation  and  indulgence  which  he  owes  to  his 
children.  His  subjects  are  his  members;  where,  if  there 
must  be  an  amputation,  let  him  come  slowly  to  it;  and  when 
the  part  is  cut  off,  let  him  wish  it  were  on  again:  let  him 
grieve  in  the  doing  of  it.  He  that  passes  a  sentence  hastily, 
looks  as  if  he  did  it  willingly;  and  then  there  is  an  injustice 
in  the  excess. 


SENECA  OF  CLEMENCY  267 

It  is  a  glorious  contemplation  for  a  prince,  first  to  consider 

the    vast    multitudes    of    his    people,    whose 

seditious,     divided,     and     impotent     passions,    ^"^ }^^^^^d  ^^- 

would     cast     all     in    confusion,   and     destroy   \llJ'°^!,j  °L:t.. 
JIT  1  T       1         ^"^^J^i  prince 

themselves,     and     pubhc     order    too,    it     the 

band  of  government  did  not  restrain  them;  and  thence  to 
pass  to  the  examination  of  his  conscience,  saying  thus  to 
himself,  "It  is  by  the  choice  of  Providence  that  I  am  here 
made  God's  deputy  upon  earth,  the  arbitrator  of  life  and 
death;  and  that  upon  my  breath  depends  the  fortune  of  my 
people.  My  lips  are  the  oracles  of  their  fate,  and  upon  them 
hangs  the  destiny  both  of  cities  and  of  men.  It  is  under  my 
favour  that  people  seek  either  for  prosperity  or  protection: 
thousands  of  swords  are  drawn  or  sheathed  at  my  pleasure. 
What  towns  shall  be  advanced  or  destroyed;  who  shall  be 
slaves,  or  who  free,  depends  upon  my  will;  and  yet,  in  this 
arbitrary  power  of  acting  without  control,  I  was  never 
transported  to  do  any  cruel  thing,  either  by  anger  or  hot 
blood  in  myself,  or  by  the  contumacy,  rashness,  or  provoca- 
tions of  other  men;  though  sufficient  to  turn  mercy  itself 
into  fury.  I  was  never  moved  by  the  odious  vanity  of 
making  myself  terrible  by  my  power,  (that  accursed,  though 
common  humour  of  ostentation  and  glory  that  haunts  impe- 
rious natures.)  My  sword  has  not  only  been  buried  in  the 
scabbard,  but  in  a  manner  bound  to  the  peace  and  tender, 
even  of  the  cheapest  blood:  and  where  I  find  no  other  mo- 
tive to  compassion,  humanity  itself  is  sufficient.  I  have  been 
always  slow  to  severity,  and  prone  to  forgive;  and  under  as 
strict  a  guard  to  observe  the  laws  as  if  I  were  accountable 
for  the  breaking  of  them.  Some  I  pardoned  for  their  youth, 
others  for  their  age.  I  spare  one  man  for  his  dignity,  another 
for  his  humility;  and  when  I  find  no  other  matter  to  work 
upon,  I  spare  myself.  So  that  if  God  should  at  this  instant 
call  me  to  an  account,  the  whole  world  agree  to  witness  for 
me,  that  I  have  not  by  any  force,  either  public  or  private, 
either  by  myself  or  by  any  other,  defrauded  the  common- 
wealth; and  the  reputation  that  I  have  ever  sought  for  has 
been  that  which  few  princes  have  obtained,  the  conscience 
of  my  proper  innocence.  And  I  have  not  lost  my  labour 
neither;  for  no  man  was  ever  so  dear  to  another,  as  I  have 
made  myself  to  the  whole  body  of  my  people."  Under  such 
a  prince  the  subject  has  nothing  to  wish  for  beyond  what  he 
enjoys;    their  fears  are  quieted,  and  their  prayers  heard;    and 


268  SENECA  OF  CLEMENCY 

there  is  nothing  can  make  their  felicity  greater,  unless  to 
make  it  perpetual;  and  there  is  no  liberty  denied  to  the  peo- 
ple but  that  of  destroying  one  another. 

It  is  the  interest  of  the  people,  by  the  consent  of  all  na- 
tions, to  run  all  hazards  for  the  safety  of  their 
Upon  the  well-  prince,  and  by  a  thousand  deaths  to  redeem 
being  of  the  ^\^^^  Qj^g  |jfg^  upon  which  SO  many  millions 
frince  defends  jg  j  Dogg  not  the  whole  body  serve  the 
the  safety  of  the  .     ,       ,  ,  11  •  t  1 

■people  mmd,  though  only  the  one  is  exposed  to  the 

eye  and  the  other  not,  but  thin  and  invisible, 
the  very  seat  of  it  being  uncertain?  Yet  the  hands,  feet,  and 
eyes,  observe  the  motions  of  it.  We  lie  down,  run  about 
and  ramble,  as  that  commands  us.  If  we  be  covetous,  we 
fish  the  seas  and  ransack  the  earth  for  treasure:  if  ambitious, 
we  burn  our  own  flesh  with  Scaevola;  we  cast  ourselves  into 
the  gulf  with  Curtius:  so  would  that  vast  multitude  of  peo- 
ple, which  is  animated  but  with  one  soul,  governed  by  one 
spirit,  and  moved  by  one  reason,  destroy  itself  with  its  own 
strength,  if  it  were  not  supported  by  wisdom  and  govern- 
ment. Wherefore,  it  is  for  their  own  security  that  the  peo- 
ple expose  their  lives  for  their  prince,  as  the  very  bond  that 
ties  the  republic  together;  the  vital  spirit  of  so  many  thou- 
sands, which  would  be  nothing  else  but  a  burden  and  prey 
without  a  governor.  When  this  union  comes  once  to  be 
dissolved,  all  falls  to  pieces;  for  empire  and  obedience  must 
stand  and  fall  together.  It  is  no  wonder  then  if  a  prince  be 
dear  to  his  people,  when  the  community  is  wrapt  up  in  him, 
and  the  good  of  both  as  inseparable  as  the  body  and  the  head; 
the  one  for  strength,  and  the  other  for  counsel;  for  what  sig- 
nifies the  force  of  the  body  without  the  direction  of  the  un- 
derstanding? While  the  prince  watches,  his  people  sleep; 
his  labour  keeps  them  at  ease,  and  his  business  keeps  them 
quiet.  The  natural  intent  of  monarchy  appears  even  from 
the  very  discipline  of  bees:  they  assign  to  their  master  the 
fairest  lodgings,  the  safest  place;  and  his  office  is  only  to  see 
that  the  rest  perform  their  duties.  When  their  king  is  lost, 
the  whole  swarm  dissolve:  more  than  one  they  will  not 
admit;  and  then  they  contend  who  shall  have  the  best. 
They  are  of  all  creatures  the  fiercest  for  their  bigness;  and  leave 
their  stings  behind  them  in  their  quarrels;  only  the  king 
himself  has  none,  intimating  that  kings  should  neither  be  vin- 
dictive nor  cruel.  Is  it  not  a  shame,  after  such  an  example 
of  moderation  in  these  creatures,  that  men  should  be  yet  in- 


SENECA  OF  CLEMENCY  269 

temperate!     It  were  well  if  they  lost  their  stings  too  in  their 

revenge,  as  well  as  the  other,  that  they  might  hurt  but  once, 

and  do  no  mischief  by  their  proxies.     It  would  tire  them  out, 

if  either  they  were  to  execute  all  with  their  own  hands,  or  to 

wound  others  at  the  peril  of  their  own  lives. 

A   prince   should   behave   himself  generously  in   the   power 

which     God     has     given     him     of    life     and     cru      ■       u     ■ 

death,     especially     toward     those     that     have        ^'^^^^"if"j 
'  ^  .•'         ,  .  1  r  1  gracious  ts  beloved 

been    at    any   time    his    equals;     tor    the    one 

has  his  revenge,  and  the  other  his  punishment  in  it.  He  that 
stands  indebted  for  his  life  has  lost  it;  but  he  that  receives  his 
life  at  the  foot  of  his  enemy,  lives  to  the  honour  of  his  pre- 
server: he  lives  the  lasting  monument  of  his  virtue;  whereas, 
if  he  had  been  led  in  triumph,  the  spectacle  would  have  been 
quickly  over.  Or  what  if  he  should  restore  him  to  his  king- 
dom again  .f'  would  it  not  be  an  ample  accession  to  his 
honour  to  show  that  he  found  nothing  about  the  conquered 
that  was  worthy  of  the  conqueror.?  There  is  nothing  more 
venerable  than  a  prince  that  does  not  revenge  an  injury. 
He  that  is  gracious  is  beloved  and  reverenced  as  a  common 
father;  but  a  tyrant  stands  in  fear  and  in  danger  even  of  his 
own  guards.  No  prince  can  be  safe  himself  of  whom  all 
others  are  afraid;  for  to  spare  none  is  to  enrage  all.  It  is  an 
error  to  imagine  that  any  man  can  be  secure  that  suffers  no- 
body else  to  be  so  too.  How  can  any  man  endure  to  lead  an 
uneasy,  suspicious,  anxious  life,  when  he  may  be  safe  if  he 
please,  and  enjoy  all  the  blessings  of  power,  together  with 
the  prayers  of  his  people?  Clemency  protects  a  prince  with- 
out a  guard;  there  is  no  need  of  troops,  castles,  or  fortifica- 
tions: security  on  the  one  side  is  the  condition  of  security  on 
the  other;  and  the  affections  of  the  subject  are  the  most  in- 
vincible fortress.  What  can  be  fairer,  than  for  a  prince  to 
live  the  object  of  his  people's  love;  to  have  the  vows  of  their 
heart  as  well  as  of  their  lips,  and  his  health  and  sickness  their 
common  hopes  and  fears.''  There  will  be  no  danger  of  plots; 
nay,  on  the  contrary,  who  would  not  frankly  venture  his 
blood  to  save  him,  under  whose  government,  justice,  peace, 
modesty,  and  dignity,  flourish?  under  whose  influence  men 
grow  rich  and  happy;  and  whom  men  look  upon  with  such 
veneration,  as  they  would  do  upon  the  immortal  gods,  if  they 
were  capable  of  seeing  them?  And,  as  the  true  represent- 
ative   of    the    Almighty    they    consider    him,    when    he    is 


270  SENECA  OF  CLEMENCY 

gracious  and  bountiful,  and  employs  his  power  to  the  advan- 
tage of  his  subjects. 

When  a  prince  proceeds  to  punishment,  it  must  be  either  to 

vindicate    himself    or    others.      It   is    a   hard 

Where  punish-      matter  to  govern  himself  in  his  own  case.     If 

ment    is    neces-    ^  ^^^  should  advise  him  not  to  be  credulous, 

sary.    Let    it    be     .  .  i    •     -i    i  i       • 

moderate  "Ut  to  examme  matters,  and  mdulge  the  mno- 

cent,  this  is  rather  a  point  of  justice  than  of 
clemency:  but  in  case  that  he  be  manifestly  injured,  I  would 
have  him  forgive,  where  he  may  safely  do  it:  and  be  tender 
even  where  he  cannot  forgive;  but  far  more  exorable  in  his 
own  case,  however,  than  in  another's.  It  is  nothing  to  be 
free  of  another  man's  purse;  and  it  is  as  little  to  be  merciful  in 
another  man's  cause.  He  is  the  great  man  that  masters  his 
passion  where  he  is  stung  himself,  and  pardons  when  he  might 
destroy.  The  end  of  punishment  is  either  to  comfort  the 
party  injured,  or  to  secure  him  for  the  future.  A  prince's 
fortune  is  above  the  need  of  such  a  comfort,  and  his  power  is 
too  eminent  to  seek  an  advance  of  reputation  by  doing  a  private 
man  a  mischief.  This  I  speak  in  case  of  an  affront  from  those 
that  are  below  us:  but  he  that  of  an  equal  has  made  any 
man  his  inferior,  has  his  revenge  in  the  bringing  of  him  down. 
A  prince  has  been  killed  by  a  servant,  destroyed  by  a  serpent; 
but  whosoever  preserves  a  man,  must  be  greater  than  the 
person  that  he  preserves.  With  citizens,  strangers,  and  people 
of  low  condition,  a  prince  is  not  to  contend,  for  they  are 
beneath  him:  he  may  spare  some  out  of  good-will,  and 
others  as  he  would  do  some  little  creatures  that  a  man  cannot 
touch  without  fouling  his  fingers:  but  for  those  that  are  to  be 
pardoned,  or  exposed  to  public  punishment,  he  may  use  mercy 
as  he  sees  occasion;  and  a  generous  mind  can  never  want  in- 
ducements and  motives  to  it;  and  whether  it  be  age  or  sex, 
high  or  low,  nothing  comes  amiss. 

To  pass  now  to  the  vindication  of  others,  there  must  be 
had  a  regard  either  to  the  amendment  of  the 

e  en  s  oj  person  punished,  or  the  making  others  better 
for  fear  of  punishment,  or  the  taking  the  of- 
fender out  of  the  way  for  the  security  of  others.  An  amend- 
ment may  be  procured  by  a  small  punishment:  for  he  lives 
more  carefully  that  has  something  yet  to  lose;  it  is  a  kind  of 
impunity  to  be  incapable  of  a  farther  punishment.  The  cor- 
ruptions  of  a   city   are   best   cured    by   a   few   and    sparing 


SENECA  OF  CLEMENCY  271 

severities;  for  the  multitude  of  offenders  creates  a  custom 
of  offending,  and  company  authorises  a  crime,  and  there  is 
more  good  to  be  done  upon  a  dissolute  age  by  -patience  than  by 
rigour;  provided  that  it  pass  not  for  an  approbation  of  ill- 
manners,  but  only  as  an  unwillingness  to  proceed  to  extremities. 
Under  a  merciful  prince,  a  man  will  be  ashamed  to  offend, 
because  a  punishment  that  is  inflicted  by  a  gentle  governor 
seems  to  fall  heavier,  and  with  more  reproach:  and  it  is  re- 
markable also,  that  "those  sins  are  often  committed  which 
are  very  often  punished."  Caligula,  in  five  years,  condemned 
more  people  to  the  sack  than  ever  were  before  him:  and  there 
were  "fewer  parricides  before  the  law  against  them  than 
after."  For  our  ancestors  did  wisely  presume,  that  the  crime 
would  never  be  committed,  until  by  law  for  punishing  it,  they 
found  that  it  might  be  done.  Parricides  began  with  the  law 
against  them,  and  the  punishment  instructed  men  in  the 
crime.  Where  there  are  few  punishments,  innocency  is  in- 
dulged as  a  public  good,  and  it  is  a  dangerous  thing  to  show 
a  city  how  strong  it  is  in  delinquents.  There  is  a  certain 
contumacy  in  the  nature  of  man,  that  makes  him  oppose  dif- 
ficulties. We  are  better  to  follow  than  to  drive;  as  a  gene- 
rous horse  rides  best  with  an  easy  bit.  People  obey  willingly 
where  they  are  commanded  kindly.  When  Burrhus  the  per- 
fect was  to  sentence  two  malefactors,  he  brought  the  warrant 
to  Nero  to  sign;  who,  after  a  long  reluctancy,  came  to  it  at 
last  with  this  exclamation,  "I  would  I  could  not  write!" 
A  speech  that  deserved  the  whole  world  for  an  auditory,  but 
all  princes  especially;  and  that  the  hearts  of  all  the  subjects 
would  conform  to  the  likeness  of  their  masters.  As  the  head 
is  well  or  ill,  so  is  the  mind  dull  or  merry.  What  is  the  dif- 
ference betwixt  a  king  and  a  tyrant,  but  a  diversity  of  will 
under  one  and  the  same  power?  The  one  destroys  for  his  plea- 
sure, the  other  upon  necessity;  a  distinction  rather  in  fact 
than  in  name. 

A  gracious  prince  is  armed  as  well  as  a  tyrant;  but  it  is 
for  the  defence  of  his  people,  and  not  for  the  ruin  of  them. 
No  king  can  ever  have  faithful  servants  that  accustoms  them 
to  tortures  and  executions:  the  very  guilty  themselves  do  not 
lead  so  anxious  a  life  as  the  persecutors:  for  they  are  not 
only  afraid  of  justice,  both  divine  and  human,  but  it  it  danger- 
ous for  them  to  mend  their  manners;  so  that  when  they  are 
once  in,  they  must  continue  to  be  wicked  upon  necessity.  An 
universal  hatred  unites  in  a  popular  rage.     A  temperate  fear 


272  SENECA  OF  CLEMENCY 

may  be  kept  In  order;  but  when  it  comes  once  to  be  contin- 
ual and  sharp,  it  provokes  people  to  extremities,  and  transports 
them  to  desperate  resolutions;  as  wild  beasts,  when  they  are 
pressed  upon  the  toil,  turn  back,  and  assault  the  very  pursuers. 
A  turbulent  government  is  a  perpetual  trouble  both  to  prince 
and  people;  and  he  that  is  a  terror  to  all  others  is  not  with- 
out terror  also  himself.  Frequent  punishments  and  re- 
venges may  suppress  the  hatred  of  a  few,  but  then  it  stirs  up 
the  detestation  of  all.  So  that  there  is  no  destroying  one 
enemy  without  making  many.  It  is  good  to  master  the  will  of 
being  cruel,  even  while  there  may  be  cause  for  it,  and  matter 
to  work  upon. 

Augustus  was  a  gracious  prince  when  he  had  the  power  in 

his  own  hand;  but  in  the  triumvir acy  he 
A  famous  m-  made  use  of  his  sword,  and  had  his  friends 
Z"demelc7'    ^^^^y    armed    to    set    upon    Anthony    during 

that  dispute.  But  he  behaved  himself  af- 
terwards at  another  rate;  for  when  he  was  betwixt  forty  and 
fifty  years  of  age  he  was  told  that  Cinna  was  in  a  plot  to  mur- 
der him,  with  the  time,  place,  and  manner  of  the  design; 
and  this  from  one  of  the  confederates.  Upon  this  he  resolved 
upon  a  revenge,  and  sent  for  several  of  his  frends  to  advise 
upon  it.  The  thought  of  it  kept  him  waking,  to  consider,  that 
there  was  the  life  of  a  young  nobleman  in  the  case,  the 
nephew  of  Pompey,  and  a  person  otherwise  innocent.  He 
was  off  and  on  several  times  whether  he  should  put  him  to 
death  or  not.  "What,"  says  he,  "shall  I  live  in  trouble  and 
in  danger  myself,  and  the  contriver  of  my  death  walk  free 
and  secure?  Will  nothing  serve  him  but  that  life  which  Provi- 
dence has  preserved  in  so  many  civil  wars;  in  so  many  battles 
both  by  sea  and  land;  and  now  in  the  state  of  an  universal 
peace  too?  and  not  a  simple  murder  neither,  but  a  sacrifice; 
for  I  am  to  be  assaulted  at  the  very  altar;  and  shall  the  con- 
triver of  all  this  villany  escape  unpunished?"  Here  Augustus 
made  a  little  pause,  and  then  recollecting  himself:  "No,  no, 
Caesar,"  says  he,  "it  is  rather  Caesar  than  Cinna  that  I  am  to 
be  angry  with:  why  do  I  myself  live  any  longer  after  that 
my  death  is  become  the  interest  of  so  many  people?  And  if  I 
go  on,  what  end  will  there  be  of  blood,  and  of  punishment? 
If  it  be  against  my  life  that  the  nobility  arms  itself,  and  levels 
their  weapons,  my  single  life  is  not  worth  the  while,  if  so 
many  must  be  destroyed  that  I  may  be  preserved."  His  wife 
Livia  gave  him  here  an  interruption,  and  desired  him  that  he 


SENECA  OF  CLEMENCY  273 

would  for  once  hear  a  woman's  counsel.  "Do,"  says  she, 
"like  a  physician,  that  when  common  remedies  fail  will  try 
the  contrary:  you  have  got  nothing  hitherto  by  severity; 
after  Salvidianus,  there  followed  Lepidus;  after  him  Muraena^ 
Caepio  follow  him,  and  Egnatius  followed  Caepio;  try  now 
what  mercy  will  do,  forgive  Cinna.  He  Is  discovered,  and 
can  do  no  hurt  in  your  person;  and  it  will  yet  advantage  you 
in  your  reputation."  Augustus  was  glad  of  the  advice,  and 
he  gave  thanks  for  it;  and  thereupon  countermanded  the 
meeting  of  his  friends,  and  ordered  Cinna  to  be  brought  to 
him  alone;  for  whom  he  caused  a  chair  to  be  set,  and  then 
discharged  the  rest  of  the  company.  "Cinna,"  says  Augus- 
tus, "before  I  go  any  farther,  you  must  promise  not  to  give 
me  the  interruption  of  one  syllable  until  I  have  told  you  all 
I  have  to  say,  and  you  shall  have  liberty  afterwards  to  say 
what  you  please.  You  cannot  forget,  that  when  I  found  you 
in  arms  against  me,  and  not  only  made  my  enemy,  but  born  so, 
I  gave  you  your  life  and  fortune.  Upon  your  petition  for  the 
priesthood,  I  granted  It,  with  a  repulse  to  the  sons  of  those 
that  had  been  my  fellow-soldiers;  and  you  are  at  this  day  so 
happy  and  so  rich,  that  even  the  conquerors  envy  him  that  is 
overcome;  and  yet  after  all  this,  you  are  In  a  plot,  Cinna,  to 
murder  me."  At  that  word  Cinna  started,  and  interposed  with 
exclamations,  "that  certainly  he  was  far  from  being  either  so 
wicked  or  so  mad."  "This  is  breach  of  conditions,  Cinna," 
says  Augustus,  "it  is  not  your  time  to  speak  yet,  I  tell  you 
again,  that  you  are  in  a  plot  to  murder  me:"  and  so  he  told 
him  the  time,  the  place,  the  confederates,  the  order  and 
manner  of  the  design,  and  who  It  was  that  was  to  do  the  deed. 
Cinna,  upon  this,  fixed  his  eye  upon  the  ground  without  any 
reply:  not  for  his  word's  sake,  but  as  In  a  confusion  of  con- 
science: and  so  Augustus  went  on.  "What,"  says  he,  "may 
your  design  be  in  all  this?  Is  it  that  you  would  pretend  to 
step  into  my  place?  The  commonwealth  were  In  an  111  con- 
dition, if  only  Augustus  were  in  the  way  betwixt  you  and  the 
government.  You  were  cast  the  other  day  in  a  cause  by  one 
of  your  own  freemen,  and  do  you  expect  to  find  a  weaker  ad- 
versary of  Caesar?  But  what  if  I  were  removed?  There  is 
iEmllius  Paulus,  Fablus  Maximus,  and  twenty  other  families 
of  great  blood  and  Interest,  that  would  never  bear  It."  To 
cut  off  the  story  short;  (for  It  was  a  discourse  of  above 
two  hours;  and  Augustus  lengthened  the  punishment  in 
words,  since  he  intended  that  should  be  all;)    "Well,  Cinna," 


274  SENECA  OF  CLEMENCY 

says  he,  "the  life  that  I  gave  you  once  as  an  enemy,  I  will 
now  repeat  it  to  a  traitor  and  to  a  parricide;  and  this  shall  be 
the  last  reproach  I  will  give  you.  For  the  time  to  come 
there  shall  be  no  other  contention  betwixt  you  and  me,  than 
which  shall  outdo  the  other  in  point  of  friendship."  After 
this  Augustus  made  Cinna  consul,  (an  honour  which  he  con- 
fessed he  durst  not  so  much  as  desire)  and  Cinna  was  ever 
affectionately  faithful  to  him:  he  made  Caesar  his  sole  heir; 
and  this  was  the  last  conspiracy  that  ever  was  formed  against 
him. 

This  moderation   of  Augustus  was  the  excellency  of  his 

mature    age;   for   in    his    youth    he   was    pas- 

Augustus' s  mode-    gionate     and     sudden;      and    he     did     many 

ration  to  bis  ene-     ^i  •  i  •  i       c^  j      i       i      i     j    l      i 

^^•^^  thmgs  which  aiterwards  he  looked  back  upon 

with  trouble:  after  the  battle  of  Actium, 
so  many  navies  broken  in  Sicily,  both  Roman  and  strangers: 
the  Perusian  altars,  (where  300  lives  were  sacrificed  to  the  ghost 
of  Julius;)  his  frequent  proscriptions,  and  other  severities; 
his  temperance  at  last  seemed  to  be  little  more  than  a  weary 
cruelty.  If  he  had  not  forgiven  those  that  he  conquered,  whom 
should  he  have  governed?  He  chose  his  very  life-gtiard  from 
among  his  enemies,  and  the  flower  of  the  Romans  owed  their 
lives  to  his  clemency.  Nay,  he  only  punished  Lepidus  himself 
with  banishment,  and  permitted  him  to  wear  the  ensigns  of  his 
dignity,  without  taking  the  pontificate  to  himself  so  long  as 
Lepidus  was  living;  for  he  would  not  possess  it  as  a  spoil,  but 
as  an  honour.  This  clemency  it  was  that  secured  him  in  his 
greatness,  and  ingratiated  him  to  the  people,  though  he  laid 
his  hand  upon  the  government  before  they  had  thoroughly 
submitted  to  the  yoke;  and  this  clemency  it  was  that  made  his 
name  famous  to  posterity.  This  is  it  that  makes  us  reckon  him 
divine  without  the  authority  of  an  apotheosis.  He  was  so 
tender  and  patient,  that  though  many  a  bitter  jest  was  broken 
upon  him,  (and  contumelies  upon  princes  are  the  most  intole~ 
Table  of  all  injuries)  yet  he  never  punished  any  man  upon 
that  subject.  It  is,  then,  generous  to  he  merciful,  when  we 
have  it  in  our  power  to  take  revenge. 

A  son  of  Titus  Arius,  being  examined  and  found  guilty  of 

parricide,  was  banished  Rome,  and  confin- 
A  merciful  judg-  ^^  ^^  Marseilles,  where  his  father  allowed 
ment  oj  Augustus     ,  .  ,  .  ,  1        1      1     1     r 

him    the    same    annuity    that    he    had    beiore; 

which  made  all  people  conclude  him  guilty,  when  they  saw 
that  his  father  had  yet  condemned  the  son  that  he  could  not 


SENECA  OF  CLEMENCY  275 

hate.  Augustus  was  pleased  to  sit  upon  the  fact  in  the  house 
of  Arius,  only  as  a  single  member  of  the  council  that  was  to 
examine  it:  if  it  had  been  in  Caesar's  palace,  the  judgment 
must  have  been  Caesar's  and  not  the  father's.  Upon  a  full 
hearing  of  the  matter,  Caesar  directed  that  every  man  should 
write  his  opinion  whether  guilty  or  not,  and  without  declaring 
of  his  own,  for  fear  of  a  partial  vote.  Before  the  opening  of 
the  books  Caesar  passed  an  oath,  that  he  would  not  be  Arius's 
heir:  and  to  show  that  he  had  no  interest  in  his  sentence,  as 
appeared  afterward;  for  he  was  not  condemned  to  the  ordi- 
nary punishments  of  parricides,  nor  to  a  prison,  but,  by  the 
mediation  of  Caesar,  only  banished  Rome,  and  confined  to 
the  place  which  his  father  should  name:  Augustus  insisting 
upon  it,  that  the  father  should  content  himself  with  an  easy 
punishment;  and  arguing  that  the  young  man  was  not 
moved  to  the  attempt  by  malice,  and  that  he  was  but  half  re- 
solved upon  the  fact,  for  he  wavered  in  it;  and  therefore,  to 
remove  him  from  the  city,  and  from  his  father's  sight, 
would  be  sufficient.  This  is  a  glorious  mercy,  and  worthy  of 
a  prince,  to  make  all  things  gentler  wherever  he  comes. 
How  miserable  is  that  man  in  himself,  who,  when  he  has  em- 
ployed his  power  in  rapines  and  cruelty  upon  others,  is  yet 
more  unhappy  in  himself?  He  stands  in  fear  both  of  his 
domestics  and  of  strangers;  the  faith  of  his  friends  and  the 
piety  of  his  children,  and  flies  to  actual  violence  to  secure 
him  from  the  violence  he  fears.  When  he  comes  to  look 
about  him,  and  to  consider  what  he  has  done,  what  he  must, 
and  what  he  is  about  to  do;  what  with  the  wickedness,  and 
with  the  torments  of  his  conscience,  many  times  he  fears  death, 
oftener  he  wishes  for  it;  and  lives  more  odious  t-o  himself 
than  to  his  subjects;  whereas  on  the  contrary,  he  that  takes 
a  care  of  the  public,  though  of  one  part  more  perhaps  than  of 
another,  yet  there  is  not  any  part  of  it  but  he  looks  upon  as 
part  of  himself.  His  mind  is  tender  and  gentle;  and  even 
where  punishment  is  necessary  and  profitable,  he  comes  to  it 
unwillingly,  and  without  any  rancour  or  enmity  in  his  heart. 
Let  the  authority,  in  fine,  be  what  it  will,  clemency  becomes 
it;  and  the  greater  the  power,  the  greater  is  the  glory  of  it. 
"It  is  a  truly  royal  virtue  for  a  prince  to  deliver  his  people 
from  other  men's  anger,  and  not  to  oppress  them  with  his  own." 


EPISTLES. 


EPISTLE  I. 


Certain  gpieral  -directions  for  the  government  of  the  voice ; 
as  in  speaking  soft  or  foud  ;  quick  or  slow :  Vie  speech  is  the 
index  p/  the.  mind. 

JL  OU  say  well,  that  in  speaking;  the  very  ordering  of  the 
voice  (to  say  nothing  of  theactions,  countenances,  and  other, 
circumstances  that  accompany  it)  is  a  consideration  worthy 
of  a  wise  man.  There  are  that  prescribe  certain  modes  of 
rising  and  falling;  nay,  if  ydu  will  be  governed  by  them, 
you  shall  not  speak  a%vord,  move  a  step,  or  eat  a  bit,  but  by 
a  rule ;  and  these  perhaps  are  too  critical.  Do  not  under- 
stand mc  yet  as  if  I  made  no  difference  betwixt  entering 
upon  a  discourses,  loud  or  soft ;  for  the  affections  do  naturally 
rise  by' degrees?  and  in  all  disputes  or  pleadings,  whether 
public  or  private,  a  man  should  properly  begin  with  modesty 
and  temper;  and  so  advance  by  Tittle  and  little,  if  need  be, 
into  clamour  and  Vociferation.  And  as  the  voice  rises  by  de- 
grees, let  it  fall'so  too  ;  not  snapping  off  upon  a  sudden,  but 
abating  as  upon  moderation :  the  other  is  unmannerly  and  rude. 
He  that  has  a  precipitate  speech  is  commonly  violent  in  his 
manners ;  beside,  that  there  is  in  it  much  of  vanity  and  emp- 
tiness ;  and  no  man  takes  satisfaction  in  a  flux  of  words  with- 
out choice,  whei-e  the  noise  is  more  tlian  thevalue.  Fabius 
was  a  man  eminent  both  for  his  life  and  learning,  and  no  less 
for  his  eloquence  ;  his  speech  was  rather  easy  and  sliding 
than  quick;  which  he  accounted  to  be  not  only  liable  to 
many  en-ors,  but  to  a  sjuspicion  of  immodesty.  Nay,  let  a 
man  have  word&  never  so  much  at  will,  he  wHl  no  more 
speak  fast  than  he  will  run,  for  fear  his  tongue  shbuld  go  be- 
fore his  wit.  The  speeeh  of  &  philosopher  ^ovUd  be,  like  his 
life,  composed,  without  pressing  or  stumbling ;  which  is  fitter 


EPISTLES 


EPISTLE  I 

Certain  general  directions  for  the  government  of  the 
voice :  as  in  speaking  soft  or  loud ;  quick  or  slow : 
the  speech  is  the  index  of  the  mind 

JL  OU  say  well,  that  in  speaking,  the  very  ordering  of  the 
voice  (to  say  nothing  of  the  actions,  countenances,  and  other 
circumstances  that  accompany  it)  is  a  consideration  worthy 
of  a  wise  man.  There  are  that  prescribe  certain  modes  of 
rising  and  falling;  nay,  if  you  will  be  governed  by  them, 
you  shall  not  speak  a  word,  move  a  step,  or  eat  a  bit,  but  by 
a  rule;  and  these  perhaps  are  too  critical.  Do  not  under- 
stand me  yet  as  if  I  made  no  difference  betwixt  entering 
upon  a  discourse,  loud  or  soft;  for  the  affections  do  naturally 
rise  by  degrees?  and  in  all  disputes  or  pleadings,  whether 
public  or  private,  a  man  should  properly  begin  with  modesty 
and  temper;  and  so  advance  by  little  and  little,  if  need  be, 
into  clamour  and  vociferation.  And  as  the  voice  rises  by  de- 
grees, let  it  fall  so  too;  not  snapping  off  upon  a  sudden,  but 
abating  as  upon  moderation:  the  other  is  unmannerly  and  rude. 
He  that  has  a  precipitate  speech  is  commonly  violent  in  his 
manners;  beside,  that  there  is  in  it  much  of  vanity  and  emp- 
tiness; and  no  man  takes  satisfaction  in  a  flux  of  words  with- 
out choice,  where  the  noise  is  more  than  the  value.  Fabius 
was  a  man  eminent  both  for  his  life  and  learning,  and  no  less 
for  his  elequence;  his  speech  was  rather  easy  and  sliding 
than  quick;  which  he  accounted  to  be  not  only  liable  to 
many  errors,  but  to  a  suspicion  of  immodesty.  Nay,  let  a 
man  have  words  never  so  much  at  will,  he  will  no  more 
speak  fast  than  he  will  run,  for  fear  his  tongue  should  go  be- 
fore his  wit.  The  speech  of  a  philosopher  should  be,  like  his 
life,  composed,  without  pressing  or  stumbling;    which  is  fitter 


278  EPISTLES 

for  a  mountebank  than  a  man  of  sobriety  and  business.  And 
then,  to  drop  one  word  after  another  is  as  bad  on  the  other 
side:  the  interruption  is  tedious,  and  tires  out  the  auditor 
with  expectation.  Truth  and  morality  should  be  delivered 
in  words  plain,  and  without  affectation;  for,  like  remedies, 
unless  they  stay  with  us,  we  are  never  the  better  for  them. 
He  that  would  work  upon  his  hearers,  must  no  more  expect 
to  do  it  upon  the  post,  than  a  physician  to  cure  his  patients 
only  in  passing  by  them.  Not  but  that  I  would  have  a  wise 
man,  in  some  cases,  to  raise  himself,  and  mend  his  pace,  but 
still  with  a  regard  to  the  dignity  of  his  manners:  though 
there  may  be  a  great  force  also  in  moderation.  I  would  have 
his  discourse  smooth  and  flowing,  like  a  river;  not  impetuous, 
like  a  torrent.  There  is  a  rapid,  lawless,  and  irrevocable  ve- 
locity of  speech,  which  I  would  scarce  allow  even  to  an 
orator;  for  if  he  be  transported  with  passion  or  ostentation, 
a  man's  attention  can  hardly  keep  him  company.  It  is  not 
the  quantity,  but  the  pertinence,  that  does  the  business.  Let 
the  words  of  an  ancient  man  flow  soft  and  gentle;  let  those 
of  an  orator  come  off  round  and  powerful;  but  not  run  on 
without  fear  or  wit,  as  if  a  whole  declamation  were  to  be  but 
one  period.  Cicero  wrote  with  care,  and  that  which  will  for 
ever  stand  the  test.  All  public  languages  are  according  to 
the  humour  of  the  age.  A  wantonness  and  eflPeminacy  of 
speech  denotes  luxury;  for  the  wit  follows  the  mind:  if  the 
latter  be  sound,  composed,  temperate,  and  grave,  the  wit  is 
dry  and  sober  too;  but  if  the  one  be  corrupted,  the  other  is 
likewise  unsound.  Do  we  not  see  when  a  man's  mind  is 
heavy,  how  he  creeps  and  draws  his  legs  after  him?  A  finical 
temper  is  read  in  the  very  gestures  and  clothes;  if  a  man  be 
choleric  and  violent,  it  is  also  discovered  in  his  motions.  An 
angry  man  speaks  short  and  quick;  the  speech  of  an  effemi- 
nate man  is  loose  and  melting.  A  quaint  and  solicitous  way 
of  speaking  is  the  sign  of  a  weak  mind;  but  a  great  man 
speaks  with  ease  and  freedom;  and  with  more  assurance; 
though  less  care.  Speech  is  the  index  of  the  mind:  when 
you  see  a  man  dress,  and  set  his  clothes  in  print,  you  shall  be 
sure  to  find  his  words  so  too,  and  nothing  in  them  that  is  firm 
and  weighty:  it  does  not  become  a  man  to  be  delicate.  As  it 
is  in  drink,  the  tongue  never  trips  till  the  mind  be  overborne, 
so  it  is  with  speech;  so  long  as  the  mind  is  whole  and  sound, 
the  speech  is  masculine  and  strong,  but  if  one  fails,  the  other 
follows. 


EPISTLES  279 

EPISTLE  II 

Of  styles,  compositions,  and  the  choice  of  words. 
That  is  the  best  way  of  writing  and  speaking  which  is 
free  and  naturaL     Advice  concerning  reading 

You  cannot  expect  any  certain  and  universal  rule,  either  for 
the  style,  or  for  the  manner  of  speaking  or  writing;  because 
they  vary  according  to  usage  and  occasion;  so  that  we  must 
content  ourselves  with  generals.  Men  write  and  speak  com- 
monly according  to  the  humour  of  the  age  they  live  in;  and 
there  is  also  a  correspondence  betwixt  the  language  and  the 
life  of  particular  persons;  as  one  may  give  a  near  guess  at  a 
man  by  his  very  gait,  furniture,  and  clothes.  In  the  first 
place,  let  the  sense  be  honest  and  noble;  not  pinched  up  in 
sentences,  but  substantial,  and  of  higher  design,  with  nothing 
in  it  superfluous.  Let  the  words  be  fitted  to  the  matter;  and 
where  the  subject  is  familiar,  let  the  style  be  so  too:  but 
great  thoughts  must  have  suitable  expressions;  and  there 
ought  to  be  a  kind  of  transport  in  the  one  to  answer  it  in 
the  other.  It  is  not  enough  to  compose  a  pleasant  fable, 
and  tickle  the  fancy;  but  he  that  treats  of  weighty  mat- 
ters must  do  it  in  grave  and  sober  terms.  There  are  some 
that  have  not  so  much  of  the  vigour  of  an  orator,  or  of 
that  sententious  sharpness;  and  yet  the  worthiness  of 
the  sense  makes  amends  for  the  lowness  of  the  style. 
Our  forefathers  were  not  at  all  delighted  with  fine  words 
and  flowers:  but  their  compositions  were  strong,  equal, 
and  manly.  We  have  now-a-days  here  and  there  a  point; 
but  the  work  is  uneven,  where  only  this  or  that  particular  is 
remarkable.  We  never  admire  this  or  that  single  tree,  where 
the  whole  wood  is  all  of  a  height.  A  specious  title-page  may 
command  a  book  to  sale,  but  not  for  use.  An  eminent  author 
is  to  be  taken  down  whole,  and  not  here  and  there  a  bit.  It 
is  a  maiming  of  the  body  to  take  the  members  of  it  apart; 
nor  is  it  a  handsome  leg  or  arm  that  makes  a  handsome  man, 
but  the  symmetry  and  agreement  of  all  together.  It  is  the 
excellency  of  speaking  and  writing  to  do  it  close,  and  in 
words  accommodate  to  the  intention;  and  I  would  yet 
have  somewhat  more  to  be  signified  than  is  delivered; 
it  being  also  a  mark  of  strength  and  solidity  of  judg- 
ment.    The    propriety    of   words,    in    some    cases,    is    won- 


28o  EPISTLES 

derful;  especially  when  we  are  well  read  in  the  knowledge 
of  things  and  of  duties;  and  there  is  a  singular  grace  in  the 
gentleness  of  numbers,  when  they  run  smooth  and  without 
perturbation.  Some  are  raised  and  startled  at  words,  as  a 
horse  is  at  a  drum,  and  indulge  the  very  passion  of  the  speak- 
er: others  are  moved  with  the  beauty  of  things;  and  when 
they  hear  any  thing  bravely  urged  against  death  or  fortune, 
they  do  secretly  wish  for  some  occasion  of  experimenting 
that  generosity  in  themselves:  but  not  one  of  a  thousand  of 
them  that  carries  the  resolution  home  with  him  that  he  had 
conceived.  It  is  an  easy  matter  to  excite  an  auditory  to  the 
love  of  goodness,  having  already  the  foundation  and  seeds  of 
virtue  within  themselves:  so  that  it  is  but  awakening  the 
consideration  of  it,  where  all  men  are  agreed  before  hand 
upon  the  main.  Who  is  so  sordid  as  not  to  be  roused  at  such 
a  speech  as  this?  "The  poor  man  wants  many  things, 
but  the  covetous  man  wants  all."  Can  any  flesh  forbear  being 
delighted  with  this  saying,  though  a  satire  against  his  own  vice? 
As  to  forced  metaphors,  and  wild  hyperboles,  I  would  leave 
them  to  the  poets.  And  I  am  utterly  against  fooling  with 
tinkling  conceits  and  sounds:  not  that  I  would  wholly  forbid 
the  use  of  hyperboles;  which,  although  they  exceed  the 
truth,  may  yet  be  a  means,  by  things  incredible,  to  bring  us 
unto  things  credible.  And  there  may  be  great  use  made  also 
of  parables:  for  the  way  of  application  does  usually  more 
affect  the  mind  than  the  downright  meaning.  That  speech 
which  gains  upon  the  passion  is  much  more  profitable  than 
that  which  only  works  upon  the  judgment.  Chrysippus  was 
a  great  man,  and  of  an  acute  wit;  but  the  edge  of  it  was  so 
fine  that  every  thing  turned  it;  and  he  might  be  said,  in  truth, 
rather  to  prick  the  subject  that  he  handled  than  to  pierce  it 
through. 

As  it  is  not  for  the  honour  of  a  philosopher  to  be  solicitous 
about  words,  I  would  not  have  him  negligent  neither:  but  let 
him  speak  with  assurance,  and  without  affectation.  If  we 
can,  let  our  discourses  be  powerful;  but  however,  let  them  be 
clear.  I  like  a  composition  that  is  nervous  and  strong;  but 
yet  I  would  have  it  sweet  and  gracious  withal.  There  are 
many  things,  I  know,  that  please  well  enough  in  the  delivery, 
and  yet  will  hardly  abide  the  test  of  an  examination:  but  that 
eloquence  is  mischievous  that  diverts  a  man  from  things  to 
words;  and  little  better  than  a  prostitution  of  letters.  For 
what  signifies  the  pomp  of  words,  or  the  jumbling  of  syllables, 


EPISTLES  281 

to  the  making  up  of  a  wise  man?  Tully's  composition,  in- 
deed, is  equal,  his  numbers  are  harmonious,  free,  and 
gentle;  and  yet  he  takes  a  care  not  to  make  any  forfeiture  of 
his  gravity.  Fabian  is  a  great  man,  in  being  second  to  Cicero; 
PoUia  a  great  man  too,  though  a  step  below  him;  and  so  is 
Livy  likewise,  though  he  comes  after  the  other  three.  But 
several  subjects  require  several  excellencies.  An  orator 
should  be  sharp,  the  tragedian  great,  and  the  comedian  plea- 
sant. When  a  man  disclaims  against  vice,  let  him  be  bitter; 
against  danger,  bold;  against  fortune,  proud;  against  ambition, 
reproachful;  let  him  chide  luxury,  defame  lust:  an  impo- 
tency  of  mind  must  be  broken.  In  these  cases  words  are  the 
least  part  of  an  honest  man's  business. 

In  the  matter  of  composition,  I  would  write  as  I  speak, 
with  ease  and  freedom;  for  it  is  more  friendly  as  well  as 
more  natural;  and  so  much  my  inclination,  that  if  I  could 
make  my  mind  visible  to  you,  I  would  neither  speak  nor 
write  it.  If  I  put  my  thoughts  in  good  sense,  the  matter  of 
ornament  I  shall  leave  to  the  orators.  There  are  some  things 
that  a  man  may  write  even  as  he  travels;  others  that  require 
privacy  and  leisure.  But,  however,  it  is  good  in  writing,  as 
in  other  cases,  to  leave  the  best  bits  for  the  last.  A  philosopher 
has  no  more  to  do  than  to  speak  properly,  and  in  words  that 
express  his  meaning.  And  this  may  be  done  without  tossing 
of  the  hands,  stamping,  or  any  violent  agitation  of  the  body; 
without  either  the  vanity  of  the  theatre  on  the  one  hand,  or 
an  insipid  heaviness  on  the  other.  I  would  have  his  speech  as 
plain  and  single  as  his  life;  for  he  is  then  as  good  as  his 
word,  when  both  hearing  him  and  seeing  him,  we  find  him 
to  be  the  same  person.  And  yet  if  a  man  can  be  eloquent 
without  more  pains  than  the  thing  is  worth,  let  him  use  his 
faculty;  provided  that  he  value  himself  upon  the  matter 
more  than  upon  the  words;  and  apply  himself  rather  to  the 
understanding  than  to  the  fancy:  for  this  is  a  business  of  vir- 
tue, not  a  trial  of  wit.  Who  is  there  that  would  not  rather 
have  a  healing,  than  a  rhetorical  physician?  But  for  esteem- 
ing any  man  purely  upon  the  score  of  his  rhetoric,  I  would  as 
soon  choose  a  pilot  for  a  good  head  of  hair. 

In  the  matter  of  reading,  I  would  fix  upon  some  parti- 
cular authors,  and  make  them  my  own.  He  that  is  every- 
where is  no  where;  but,  like  a  man  that  spends  his  life  in 
travel,  he  has  many  hosts,  but  few  friends;  which  is  the  very 
condition  of  him  that  skips  from  one  book  to  another;    the 


282  EPISTLES 

variety  does  but  distract  his  head,  and,  for  want  of  digesting, 
it  turns  to  corruption  instead  of  nourishment.  It  is  a  good 
argument  of  a  well-composed  mind  when  a  man  loves  home, 
and  to  keep  company  with  himself;  whereas  a  rambling 
head  is  a  certain  sign  of  a  sickly  humour.  Many  books,  and 
many  acquaintances,  bring  a  man  to  a  levity  of  disposition  and 
a  liking  of  change.  What  is  the  body  the  better  for  meat  that 
will  not  stay  with  it?  nor  is  there  any  thing  more  hurtful  in 
the  case  of  diseases  or  wounds  than  the  frequent  shifting 
of  physic  or  plaisters.  Of  authors,  be  sure  to  make  choice  of 
the  best;  and  (as  I  said  before)  to  stick  close  to  them;  and 
though  you  take  up  others  by  the  bye,  reserve  some  select 
ones  however  for  your  study  and  retreat.  In  your  reading, 
you  will  every  day  meet  with  some  consolation  and  support 
against  poverty,  death,  and  other  calamities  incident  to 
human  life;  extract  what  you  like,  and  then  single  out  some 
particular  from  the  rest  for  that  day's  meditation.  Reading 
does  not  only  feed  and  entertain  the  understanding,  but  when 
a  man  is  dosed  with  one  study,  he  relieves  himself  with 
another;  but  still  reading  and  writing  are  to  be  taken  up  by 
turns.  So  long  as  the  meat  lies  whole  upon  the  stomach,  it  is 
a  burden  to  us;  but,  upon  the  concoction,  it  passes  into 
strength  and  blood.  And  so  it  fares  with  our  studies;  so 
long  as  they  lie  whole,  they  pass  into  the  memory  without 
affecting  the  understanding;  but,  upon  meditation,  they  be- 
come our  own,  and  supply  us  with  strength  and  virtue;  the 
bee  that  wanders  and  sips  from  every  flower,  disposes  what 
she  has  gathered  into  her  cells. 


EPISTLE  III 

Against  all  sorts  of  affectation  in  discourse.  Fantas- 
tical studies,  impertinent  and  unprofitable  subtleties. 
Man's  business  is  virtue,  not  words 

There  are  many  men  (and  some  of  great  sense  too,)  that 
lose  both  the  profit  and  the  reputation  of  good  thoughts  by 
the  uncouth  manners  of  expressing  them.  They  love  to  talk 
in  mystery,  and  take  it  for  a  mark  of  wisdom  not  to  be  under- 
stood. They  are  so  fond  of  making  themselves  public,  that 
they  will  rather  be  ridiculous  than  not  taken  notice  of.     When 


EPISTLES  283 

the  mind  grows  squeamish,  and  comes  to  a  loathing  of  things 
that  are  common,  as  if  they  were  sordid,  that  sickness  betrays 
itself  in  our  way  of  speaking  too:  for  we  must  have  new 
words,  new  compositions ;  and  it  passes  for  an  ornament  to  bor- 
row from  other  tongues  where  we  may  be  better  furnished  in 
our  own.  One  man  prizes  himself  upon  being  concise,  and 
talking  in  parables:  another  runs  himself  out  in  words,  and 
that  which  he  takes  only  for  copious,  renders  him  to  others 
both  ridiculous  and  tedious.  Others  there  are  that  like  the 
error  well  enough,  but  cannot  come  up  to  it.  But  take  this 
for  a  rule;  "Wheresoever  the  speech  is  corrupted,  so  is  the 
mind."  Some  are  only  for  words  antiquated,  and  long  since 
out  of  date;  others  only  for  that  which  is  popular  and  coarse; 
and  they  are  both  in  the  wrong:  for  the  one  takes  too  little 
care,  and  the  other  too  much.  Some  are  for  a  rough,  broken 
style,  as  if  it  were  a  thing  unmanly  to  please  the  ear;  others 
are  too  nice  upon  the  matter  of  number,  and  make  it  rather 
singing  than  speaking.  Some  affect  not  to  be  understood  till 
the  end  of  the  period,  and  hardly  then  neither.  It  is  not  a 
good  style  that  is  either  too  bold  or  too  florid;  the  one  wants 
modesty,  and  the  other  effect.  Some  are  too  starcht  and  formal; 
others  take  a  pride  in  being  rugged;  and  if  they  chance  to 
let  fall  any  thing  that  is  smooth,  they  will  transpose  and 
mangle  it  on  purpose,  only  to  maim  the  period,  and  disappoint 
a  body's  expectation.  These  errors  are  commonly  intro- 
duced by  some  person  that  is  famous  for  his  eloquence:  others 
follow  him,  and  so  it  passes  into  a  fashion:  and  we  are 
as  much  out  in  the  choice  of  the  matter  as  in  that  of  our 
words. 

There  are  some  studies  which  are  only  matter  of  curiosity 
and  trial  of  skill,  others  of  pleasure  and  of  use:  but  still 
there  are  many  things  worth  the  knowing  perhaps,  that  were 
not  worth  the  learning.  It  is  a  huge  deal  of  time  that  is  spent 
in  caviling  about  words  and  captious  disputations,  that  work 
us  up  to  the  edge,  and  then  nothing  comes  on  it.  There  are 
some  tricks  of  wit,  like  sleight  of  hand,  which  amount  to  no 
more  than  the  tying  of  knots  only  to  losen  them  again;  and 
it  is  the  very  fallacy  that  pleases  us;  for  so  soon  as  ever  we 
know  how  they  are  done,  the  satisfaction  is  at  an  end.  He 
that  does  not  understand  these  sophisms  is  never  the  worse, 
and  he  that  does  is  never  the  better.  If  a  man  tell  me  that  I 
have  horns,  I  can  tell  him  again  that  I  have  none,  without 
feeling  of  my  forehead.     Bion's  dilemma  makes  all  men  to 


284  EPISTLES 

be  sacrilegious;  and  yet  at  the  same  time  maintains  that 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  sacrilege.  "He  that  takes  to  him- 
self" says  he,  "what  belongs  to  God,  commits  sacrilege:  but 
all  things  belong  to  God,  therefore  he  that  applies  any  thing  to 
his  own  use  is  sacrilegious."  On  the  other  side,  the  very 
rifling  of  a  temple  he  makes  to  be  no  sacrilege:  "For  it  is" 
says  he,  "but  the  taking  of  something  out  of  one  place  that 
belongs  to  God,  and  removing  of  it  to  another  that  belongs  to 
him  too."  The  fallacy  lies  in  this,  that  though  all  things  be- 
long to  him,  all  things  are  not  yet  dedicated  to  him.  There 
is  no  greater  enemy  of  truth  than  over-much  subtlety  of 
speculation.  Protagoras  will  have  every  thing  disputable, 
and  as  much  to  be  said  for  the  one  side  as  for  the  other;  nay, 
he  makes  it  another  question,  "Whether  every  thing  be  dis- 
putable or  not?"  There  are  others  that  make  it  a  science  to 
prove  that  a  man  knows  nothing;  but  the  former  is  the  more 
tolerable  error:  for  the  other  takes  away  the  very  hope  of 
knowledge;  and  it  is  better  to  know  that  which  is  superfluous 
than  nothing  at  all.  And  yet  it  is  a  kind  of  intemperance 
to  desire  to  know  more  than  enough;  for  it  makes  men 
troublesome,  talkative,  impertinent,  conceited,  &c.  There  is 
a  certain  hankering  after  learning;  which,  if  it  be  not  put 
into  a  right  way,  hinders  and  fall  foul  upon  itself.  Wherefore 
the  burden  must  be  fitted  to  the  shoulders,  and  no  more  than 
we  are  able  to  hear.  It  is,  in  a  great  measure,  the  fault  of  our 
tutors  that  teach  their  disciples  rather  how  to  dispute  than 
how  to  live;  and  the  learner  himself  is  also  to  blame  for 
applying  himself  to  the  improvement  rather  of  his  wit  than 
of  his  mind:  by  which  means  philosophy  is  now  turned  to 
philology.  But  a  grammarian  to  a  Virgil,  he  never  needs  the 
■philosophy,  but  the  verse:  every  man  takes  notes  for  his  own 
study.  In  the  same  meadow  the  cow  finds  grass,  the  dog 
starts  a  hare,  and  the  stork  snaps  a  lizzard.  Tully's  de  Repub- 
lica  finds  work  both  for  the  philosopher,  the  philologer,  and 
the  grammarian.  The  philosopher  wonders  how  it  was  pos- 
sible to  speak  so  much  against  justice.  The  philologer  makes 
this  observation,  that  Rome  had  two  kings;  the  one  without  a 
father,  and  the  other  without  a  mother;  for  it  is  a  question 
who  was  Servius  his  mother;  and  of  Ancus  his  father  there 
is  not  so  much  as  any  mention.  The  grammarian  takes 
notice,  that  reapse  is  used  for  reipsa;  and  sepse  for  seipse; 
and  so  every  man  makes  his  notes  for  his  own  purpose. 
These  fooleries  apart,  let  us  learn  to  do  good  to  mankind, 
and    to    put    our    knowledge    into    action.     Our    danger    is 


EPISTLES  285 

the  being  mistaken  in  things,  not  in  words,  and  in  the 
confounding  of  good  and  evil:  so  that  our  whole  life  is 
but  one  continued  error,  and  we  live  in  dependency 
upon  to-morrow.  There  are  a  world  of  things  to  be  studied 
and  learned,  and  therefore  we  should  discharge  the  mind  of 
things  unnecessary  to  make  way  for  greater  matters.  The  busi- 
ness of  the  schools  is  rather  a  play  than  study,  and  only  to  be 
when  we  can  do  nothing  else.  There  are  many  people  that 
frequent  them  only  to  hear,  and  not  to  learn:  and  they  take 
notes  too,  not  to  reform  their  manners,  but  to  pick  up  words; 
which  they  vent  with  as  little  benefit  to  others  as  they  heard 
them  to  themselves.  It  costs  us  a  great  deal  of  time,  and 
other  men's  ears  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  to  purchase  the 
character  of  a  learned  man,  wherefore  I  shall  even  content 
myself  with  the  coarser  title  of  an  honest  man.  The  worst 
of  it  is,  that  there  is  a  vain  and  idle  pleasure  in  it,  which 
tempts  us  to  squander  away  many  a  precious  hour  to  very 
little  purpose.  We  spend  ourselves  upon  subtleties,  which 
may  perchance  make  us  to  be  thought  learned,  but  not  good. 
Wisdom  delights  in  openness  and  simplicity;  in  the  forming 
of  our  lives  rather  than  in  the  niceties  of  the  schools,  which, 
at  best,  do  but  bring  us  pleasure  without  profit.  And  in  short, 
the  things  which  the  philosophers  impose  upon  us  with  so 
much  pride  and  vanity  are  little  more  than  the  same  lessons 
over  again  which  they  learned  at  school.  But  some  others 
have  their  names  up,  though  their  discourses  be  mean 
enough;  they  dispute  and  wrangle,  but  they  do  not  edify  any 
farther  than  as  they  keep  us  from  ill-doing,  or  perhaps  stop  us 
in  our  speed  to  wickedness.  And  there  ought  to  be  a  diff^er- 
ence  betwixt  the  applauses  of  the  schools  and  of  the  theatre; 
the  one  being  moved  with  every  popular  conceit,  which  does 
not  at  all  consist  with  the  dignity  of  the  other.  Whereas 
there  are  some  writings  that  stir  up  some  generous  reso- 
lutions, and  do,  as  it  were,  inspire  a  man  with  a  new  soul. 
They  display  the  blessings  of  a  happy  life,  and  possess  me  at 
the  same  time  with  admiration  and  with  hope.  They  give 
me  a  veneration  for  the  oracles  of  antiquity,  and  a  claim  to 
them  as  to  a  common  inheritance;  for  they  are  the  treasure 
of  mankind,  and  it  must  be  my  duty  to  improve  the  stock, 
and  transmit  it  to  posterity.  And  yet  I  do  not  love  to  hear  a 
man  cite  Zeno,  Cleanthes,  Epicurus,  without  something  of 
his  own  too.  What  do  I  care  for  the  bare  hearing  of  that 
which  I  may  read.''     Not  but  that  word  of  mouth  makes  a 


286  EPISTLES 

great  impression,  especially  when  they  are  the  speaker's  own 
words:  but  he  that  only  recites  another  man's  words  is  no 
more  to  me  than  a  notary.  Beside  that,  there  is  an  end  of 
invention  if  we  rest  upon  what  is  invented  already;  and  he 
that  only  follows  another,  is  so  far  from  finding  out  any  thing 
new,  that  he  does  not  so  much  as  look  for  it.  I  do  not  pre- 
tend all  this  while  to  be  the  master  of  truth,  but  I  am  yet  a 
most  obstinate  inquisitor  after  it.  I  am  no  man's  slave;  but 
as  I  ascribe  much  to  great  men,  I  challenge  something  to 
myself.  Our  forefathers  have  left  us  not  only  their  invention, 
but  matter  also  for  farther  inquiry,  and  perhaps  they  might 
have  found  out  more  things  that  are  necessary,  if  they  had 
not  bent  their  thoughts  too  much  upon  superfluities. 

Is  not  this  a  fine  time  for  us  to  be  fiddling  and  fooling  about 
words?  How  many  useful  and  necessary  things  are  there, 
that  we  are  first  to  learn,  and,  secondly,  to  imprint  in  our 
minds?  For  it  is  not  enough  to  remember  and  to  understand, 
unless  we  do  what  we  know. 


EPISTLE   IV 

Business,  and  want  of  news,  are  no  excuse  among 
friends  for  not  writing.  Wise  men  are  the  better  for 
one  another.  How  far  wisdom  may  be  advanced  by 
precept 

Your  last  letter  was  very  short;  and  the  whole  letter  itself 
was  little  more  than  an  excuse  for  the  shortness  of  it.  One 
while  you  are  so  full  oi  business  that  you  cannot  write  at  all; 
and  another  while  you  have  so  little  news  that  you  do  not 
know  what  to  write.  Now,  assure  yourself,  that  whosoever 
has  a  mind  to  write  may  find  leisure  for  it:  and  for  your  other 
pretence,  it  looks  as  if  we  ourselves  were  the  least  part  of 
our  own  business.  Put  the  case,  that  the  whole  world  were 
becalmed,  and  that  there  were  neither  wars,  amours,  fac- 
tions, designs,  disappointments,  competitors,  or  law-suits;  no 
prodigals,  usurers,  or  fornicators,  in  nature,  there  would  be  a 
large  field  yet  left  for  the  offices  of  friendship,  and  for  the  exer- 
cise of  philosophy  and  virtue.  Let  us  rather  consider  what 
we  ourselves  ought  to  do  than  hearken  after  the  doings  of 
other  people.  What  signifies  the  story  of  our  neighbour's 
errors  to  the  reforming  of  our  own?     Is  it  not  a  more  glorious 


EPISTLES  287 

and  profitable  employment  to  write  the  history  oi  Providence ^ 
than  to  record  the  usurpation  of  ambitious  princes?  and  rather 
to  celebrate  the  bounties  of  the  Almighty  than  the  robberies 
of  Alexander?  Nor  is  business  any  excuse  for  the  neglect 
either  of  our  studies  or  of  our  friends.  First,  we  continue  our 
own  business,  and  then  we  increase  it:  and  instead  of  lend- 
ing, we  do  wholly  give  ourselves  up  to  it,  and  haunt  for 
coloured  pretences  of  misspending  our  time.  But  I  say,  that 
wherever  we  are,  or  with  whomsoever  or  howsoever  em- 
ployed, we  have  our  thoughts  at  liberty. 

You  have  here  drawn  a  long  letter  from  me;  and  if  you 
find  it  tedious,  you  may  thank  yourself  for  calling  upon  me 
to  be  as  good  as  my  word.  Not  but  that  I  write  by  inclina- 
tion too.  For  if  we  love  the  pictures  of  our  friends,  by 
what  hand  soever  they  be  drawn,  how  much  more  then  shall 
we  joy  in  a  friend's  letters,  which  are  undoubtedly  the  most 
lively  pictures  of  one  another?  It  is  a  shame,  you  will  say, 
to  stand  in  need  of  any  remembrancers  of  an  absent  friend; 
and  yet  sometimes  the  place,  a  servant,  a  relation,  a  house, 
a  garment,  may  honestly  excite  the  memory;  and  it  renders 
every  thing  as  fresh  to  us  as  if  we  were  still  joined  in  our  em- 
braces, and  drinking  up  one  another's  tears.  It  is  by  the 
benefit  of  letters  that  absent  friends  are  in  a  manner  brought 
together;  beside  that,  epistolary  discourses  are  much  more 
profitable  than  public  and  premeditated  declamations;  for 
they  insinuate  themselves  into  the  affections  with  more  freedom 
and  effect,  though  with  less  pomp  and  pretence.  You  do  ex- 
pect, perhaps,  that  I  should  tell  you  how  gentle  and  short  a 
winter  we  have  had;  how  cold  and  unseasonable  a  spring,  or 
some  other  fooleries  to  as  little  purpose.  But  what  are  you 
and  I  the  better  of  such  discourses?  We  should  rather  be 
laying  the  foundations  of  a  good  mind;  and  learning  to  dis- 
tinguish betwixt  the  blessings  of  virtue  and  the  amusements  of 
imagination.  There  came  in  some  friends  to  me  yesterday,  that 
made  the  chimney  smoke  a  little  more  than  ordinary,  but  not 
at  a  rate  to  make  the  neighbourhood  cry  out  fire.  We  had  a 
variety  of  discourse;  and  passing  from  one  thing  to  another, 
we  came  at  last  to  read  something  of  Quintus  Saxtius;  (a 
great  man,  upon  my  credit,  deny  it  that  will.)  Good  God! 
the  force  and  vigour  of  that  man's  writings!  And  how  much 
are  they  above  the  common  level  of  other  philosophers!  I 
cannot  read  them,  methinks,  without  challenging  of  fortune, 
and  defying  all  the  powers  of  ambition  and  violence.     The 


288  EPISTLES 

more  I  consider  him  the  more  I  admire  him;  for  I  find  in 
him  (as  in  the  world  itself,)  every  day  to  be  a  new  spectacle, 
and  to  afford  fresh  matter  still  for  more  veneration.  And  yet 
the  wisdom  of  our  forefathers  has  left  work  enough  for  their 
posterity;  even  if  there  were  no  more  in  it  than  the  applica- 
tion of  what  they  have  transmitted  to  us  of  their  own  inven- 
tion. As  suppose  they  had  left  us  remedies  for  such  and 
such  diseases,  so  certain  that  we  should  not  need  to  look  for 
any  other  medicines,  there  would  be  some  skill  yet  required 
in  the  applying  of  them  in  the  proper  case,  proportion,  and  sea- 
son. I  have  an  honour  for  the  memorials  of  our  worthy  pro- 
genitors. If  I  meet  a  consul  or  a  -prcBtor  upon  the  road,  I  will 
alight  from  my  horse,  uncover  my  head,  and  give  him  the 
way;  and  shall  I  have  no  veneration  now  for  the  names  of 
the  governors  of  mankind?  No  man  is  so  wise  as  to  know 
all  things;  or  if  he  did,  one  wise  man  may  yet  be  helpful  to 
another  in  finding  out  a  nearer  way  to  the  finishing  of  his 
work:  for  let  a  man  make  never  so  much  haste,  it  is  some 
sort  of  assistance,  the  bare  encouraging  of  him  to  continue 
his  course;  beside  the  comforts  and  benefits  of  communica- 
tion in  loving,  and  being  beloved,  and  in  the  mutual  approba- 
tion of  each  other. 

The  last  point,  you  know,  that  you  and  I  had  in  debate  was, 
"Whether  or  not  wisdom  may  be  perfected  by  precept." 
There  are  some  that  account  only  that  part  of  'philosophy  to  be 
profitable  to  mankind  which  delivers  itself  in  particular  pre- 
cepts to  particular  persons,  without  forming  the  whole 
man:  teaching  the  husband  (for  the  purpose)  how  to  behave 
himself  to  his  wife,  the  father  how  to  train  up  and  discipline 
his  children,  and  the  master  how  to  govern  his  servants;  as 
if  any  man  could  be  sujfficiently  instructed  in  the  parts  of  life 
without  comprehending  the  whole  sum  and  scope  of  it. 
Others  (as  Aristo  the  Stoic)  are  rather  for  the  general  degrees 
of  philosophers;  which,  whosoever  knows  in  the  main,  that 
person  understands  in  every  particular  how  to  tutor  himself. 
As  he  that  learns  to  cast  a  dart,  when  he  has  by  practice  and 
exercise  gotten  a  true  aim,  he  will  not  only  strike  this  or  that 
mark,  but  whatever  he  has  a  mind  to:  so  he  that  is  well  in- 
formed in  the  whole  will  need  no  direction  in  the  parts,  but 
under  the  principles  of  a  good  life  learn  how  to  behave  him- 
self in  all  the  circumstances  of  it.  Cleanthes  allows  the 
parcenetic  or  preceptive  philosophy  to  be  in  some  sort  profit- 
able;   but  yet  very  short   and   defective,  unless   as  it  flows 


EPISTLES  289 

from  the  universal  understanding  of  the  heads  and  degrees  of 
philosophy.  Now,  the  question  is,  Whether  this  alone  can 
make  a  good  man?  and  whether  it  be  superfluous  itself,  or  so 
sufficient  as  to  make  all  other  knowledge  appear  so?  They 
that  will  have  it  superfluous,  argue  thus:  If  the  eyes  be 
covered,  there  is  no  seeing  without  removing  the  impedi- 
ment; and  in  that  condition,  it  is  to  no  purpose  to  bid  a  man 
go  to  such  and  such  a  place,  or  to  reach  this  or  that  with  his 
hand:  and  so  it  fares  with  the  mind;  so  long  as  that  con- 
tinues clouded  with  ignorance  and  error,  it  is  idle  to  give 
particular  precepts;  as  if  you  should  teach  a  poor  man  to 
act  the  part  of  a  rich,  or  one  that  is  hungry  how  to  behave 
himself  with  a  full  stomach;  while  the  one  is  necessitous, 
and  the  other  half-starved,  they  are  neither  of  them  the  better 
for  it.  And  then,  shall  we  give  precepts  in  manifest  cases  or 
in  doubtful?  The  former  need  none,  and  in  the  latter  we 
shall  not  be  believed.  Nor  is  it  enough  simply  to  advise,  un- 
less we  also  give  reasons  for  it.  There  are  two  terrors  which 
we  are  liable  to  in  this  case;  either  the  wickedness  of  per- 
verse opinions,  which  have  taken  possession  of  us;  or  at 
least  a  disposition  to  entertain  error  under  any  resemblance 
of  truth.  So  that  our  work  must  be,  either  to  cure  a  sick 
mind  that  is  already  tainted,  or  to  prepossess  an  evil  inclina- 
tion before  it  comes  to  an  ill  habit.  Now,  the  degrees  of  phi- 
losophy enable  us  in  both  these  cases:  nor  is  it  possible,  by 
particulars,  to  obviate  all  particular  occasions.  One  man 
marries  a  widow,  another  a  maid:  she  may  be  rich  or  poor, 
barren  or  fruitful,  young  or  ancient;  superior,  inferior,  or 
equal.  One  man  follows  public  business,  another  flies  it;  so 
that  the  same  advice  that  is  profitable  to  the  one  may  be  mis- 
chievous to  the  other.  Every  one's  is  a  particular  case,  and 
must  be  suited  with  a  particular  counsel.  The  laws  of  philo- 
sophy are  brief,  and  extend  to  all;  but  the  variety  of  the 
other  is  incomprehensible,  and  can  never  make  that  good  to 
all  which  it  promises  to  a  few.  The  precepts  of  wisdom  lie 
open,  but  the  degrees  of  it  are  hidden  in  the  dark. 

Now,  in  answer,  it  does  not  hold  with  the  mind  as  with  the 
eye:  if  there  be  a  suffusion,  it  is  to  be  helped  by  remedy 
and  not  by  precept.  The  eye  is  not  to  be  taught  to  distin- 
guish colours;  but  the  mind  must  be  informed  what  to  do  in 
life.  And  yet  the  physician  will  prescribe  order  also  to  the 
patient,  as  well  as  physic;  and  tell  him,  "You  must  bring 
your  eye  to  endure  the  light  by  degrees;    have  a  care  of  stu- 


290  EPISTLES 

dying  upon  a  full  stomach,"  &c.  We  are  told,  that  precepts 
do  neither  extinguish  nor  abate  false  opinions  in  us  of  good  or 
evil;  and  it  shall  be  granted,  that  of  themselves  they  are  not 
able  to  subdue  vicious  inclinations;  but  this  does  not  hinder 
them  from  being  very  useful  to  us  in  conjunction  with  other 
helps.  First,  as  they  refresh  the  memory;  and,  secondly,  as 
they  bring  us  to  a  more  distinct  view  of  the  parts,  which  we 
saw  but  confusedly  in  the  whole.  At  the  same  rate,  consola- 
tories  and  exhortations  will  be  found  superfluous  as  well  as 
precepts;  which  yet  upon  daily  experience  we  know  to  be 
otherwise.  Nay,  we  are  the  better,  not  only  for  the  precepts, 
but  for  the  converse  of  philosophers;  for  we  still  carry  away 
somewhat  of  the  tincture  of  virtue  whether  we  will  or  not; 
but  the  deepest  impression  they  make  is  upon  children.  It 
is  urged,  that  precepts  are  insufficient  without  proof;  but  I 
say,  that  the  very  authority  of  the  adviser  goes  a  great  way 
in  the  credit  of  the  advice;  as  we  depend  upon  the  opinion 
of  the  lawyer  without  demanding  his  reason  for  it.  And 
again,  whereas  the  variety  of  precepts  is  said  by  be  infinite, 
I  cannot  allow  it.  For  the  greatest  and  most  necessary  af- 
fairs are  not  many;  and  for  the  application  to  time,  places, 
and  persons,  the  diflPerences  are  so  small  that  a  few  general 
rules  will  serve  the  turn.  Nay,  let  a  man  be  never  so  right 
in  his  opinion,  he  may  yet  be  more  confirmed  in  it  by  admo- 
nition. There  are  many  things  that  may  assist  a  cure,  though 
they  do  not  perfect  it;  even  mad  men  themselves  may  be 
kept  in  awe  by  menaces  and  correction.  But  it  is  a  hard 
matter,  I  must  confess,  to  give  counsel  at  a  distance:  for  ad- 
vice depends  much  upon  the  opportunity;  and  that,  per- 
haps, which  was  proper  when  it  was  desired,  may  come  to  be 
pernicious  before  it  be  received.  Some  indeed,  may  be  pre- 
scribed, as  some  remedies,  at  any  distance,  and  transmitted 
to  posterity;  but  for  others,  a  man  must  be  upon  the  place 
and  deliberate  upon  circumstances,  and  be  not  only  present, 
but  watchful,  to  strike  in  with  the  very  nick  of  the  occasion. 


EPISTLES  291 

EPISTLE  V 

Seneca  gives  an  account  of  himself :  of  his  studies,  and 
of  his  inclinations:  with  many  excellent  reflections 
upon  the  duties  a7id  the  errors  of  human  life 

Your  letters  were  old  before  they  came  to  my  hand:  so 
that  I  made  no  inquiry  of  the  messenger  what  you  were 
a-doing;  besides  that,  wherever  you  are,  I  take  it  for  granted 
that  I  know  your  business,  and  that  you  are  still  upon  the 
great  work  of  perfecting  yourself:  a  thing  not  to  be  done 
by  chance,  but  by  industry  and  labour.  We  are  all  of  us 
wicked  before  we  come  to  be  good.  We  are  prepossessed, 
so  that  we  must  unlearn  iniquity,  and  study  virtue.  The 
great  difficulty  is  to  begin  the  enterprise;  for  a  weak  mind 
is  afraid  of  new  experiments.  I  have  now  given  over  trou- 
bling myself  for  fear  of  you;  because  I  have  that  security 
for  your  well-doing  that  never  failed  any  man.  The  love  of 
truth  and  of  goodness  is  become  habitual  to  you.  It  may  so 
fall  out  that  Fortune  perhaps  may  do  you  an  injury;  but 
there  is  no  fear  of  your  doing  yourself  one.  Go  on  as  you 
have  begun,  and  compose  your  resolutions;  not  to  an  eflPemi- 
nate  ease,  but  to  a  frame  of  virtuous  quiet.  It  is  a  double 
kindness  that  you  call  me  to  so  strict  an  account  of  my  time, 
that  nothing  less  than  a  diary  of  my  life  will  satisfy  you;  for 
I  take  it  as  a  mark  both  of  your  good  opinion  and  of  your 
friendship;  the  former,  in  believing  that  I  do  nothing  which 
I  care  to  conceal;  and  the  other,  in  assuring  yourself  that  I 
will  make  you  the  confidant  of  all  my  secrets.  I  will  here- 
after set  a  watch  upon  myself,  and  do  as  you  would  have  me; 
and  acquaint  you  not  only  with  the  course  and  method,  but 
with  the  very  business,  of  my  life. 

This  day  I  have  had  entire  to  myself,  without  any  knock- 
ing at  my  door,  or  lifting  up  of  the  hanging;  but  I  have  di- 
vided it  betwixt  my  book  and  my  bed,  and  been  left  at  liberty 
to  do  my  own  business:  for  all  the  impertinents  were  either 
at  the  theatre,  at  bowls,  or  at  the  horse-match.  My  body 
does  not  require  much  exercise,  and  I  am  beholden  to  my 
age  for  it:  a  little  makes  me  weary;  and  that  is  the  end  also 
of  that  which  is  most  robust.  My  dinner  is  a  piece  of  dry 
bread,  without  a  table,  and  without  fouling  my  fingers.  My 
sleeps  are  short,  and  in  truth  a  little  doubtful  betwixt  slumber- 


292  EPISTLES 

ing  and  waking.  One  while  I  am  reflecting  upon  the  errors 
of  antiquity;  and  then  I  apply  myself  to  the  correcting  of 
my  own.  In  my  reading,  with  reverence  to  the  ancients, 
some  things  I  take,  others  I  alter;  and  some  again,  I  reject, 
others  I  invent;  without  enthralling  myself  so  to  another's 
judgment  as  not  to  preserve  the  freedom  of  my  own.  Some- 
times, of  a  sudden,  in  the  middle  of  my  meditations,  my 
ears  are  struck  with  the  shout  of  a  thousand  people  together, 
from  some  spectacle  or  other;  the  noise  does  not  at  all  dis- 
compose my  thought;  it  is  no  more  to  me  than  the  dashing 
of  waves,  or  the  wind  in  a  wood;  but  possibly  sometimes  it 
may  divert  them.  "Good  Lord,"  think  I,  "if  men  would 
but  exercise  their  brains  as  they  do  their  bodies;  and  take  as 
much  pains  for  virtue  as  they  do  for  pleasure!"  For  difficul- 
ties strengthen  the  mind  as  well  as  labour  does  the  body. 

You  tell  me  that  you  want  my  books  more  than  my  coun- 
sels; which  I  take  just  as  kindly  as  if  you  should  have  asked 
me  for  my  picture.  For  I  have  the  very  same  opinion  of 
my  wit  that  I  have  of  my  beauty.  You  shall  have  both  the 
one  and  the  other,  with  my  very  self  into  the  bargain. 

In  the  examination  of  my  own  heart,  I  find  some  vices  that 
lie  open;  others  more  obscure  and  out  of  sight;  and  some  that 
take  me  only  by  fits.  Which  last  I  look  upon  as  the  most 
dangerous  and  troublesome;  for  they  lie  upon  the  catch,  and 
keep  a  man  upon  a  perpetual  guard:  being  neither  provided 
against  them,  as  in  a  state  of  war;  nor  secure,  as  in  any  as- 
surance of  peace.  To  say  the  truth,  we  are  all  of  us  as  cruel, 
as  ambitious,  and  as  luxurious,  as  our  fellows;  but  we  want 
the  fortune,  or  the  occasion,  perchance,  to  show  it.  When  the 
snake  is  frozen,  it  is  safe;  but  the  poison  is  still  in  it  though 
it  be  numbed.  We  hate  upstarts,  that  use  their  power  with 
insolence;  when  yet,  if  we  had  the  same  means,  it  is  odds 
that  we  should  do  the  same  thing  ourselves.  Only  our  cor- 
ruptions are  private  for  want  of  opportunity  to  employ  them. 
Some  things  we  look  upon  as  superfluous,  and  others,  as  not 
worth  the  while;  but  we  never  consider  that  we  pay  dearest 
for  that  which  we  pretend  to  receive  gratis;  as  anxiety,  loss 
of  credit,  liberty,  and  time.  So  cheap  is  every  man  in  eff"ect 
that  pretends  to  be  most  dear  to  himself.  Some  are  dipt  in 
their  lusts  as  in  a  river;  there  must  be  a  hand  to  help  them 
out:  others  are  strangely  careless  of  good  counsel,  and  yet 
well  enough  disposed  to  follow  example.  Some  again  must 
be  forced  to  their  duties,  because  there  is  no  good  to  be  done 


EPISTLES  293 

upon  them  by  persuasion;  but  out  of  the  whole  race  of  man- 
kind, how  few  are  there  that  are  able  to  help  themselves? 
Being  thus  conscious  of  our  own  frailty,  we  should  do  well 
to  keep  ourselves  quiet,  and  not  to  trust  weak  minds  with 
wine,  beauty,  or  pleasure.  We  have  much  ado,  you  see,  to 
keep  our  feet  upon  dry  ground;  what  will  become  of  us  then 
if  we  venture  ourselves  where  it  is  slippery?  It  is  not  to  say, 
"This  is  a  hard  lesson,  and  we  cannot  go  through  with  it!" 
for  we  can,  if  we  would  endeavour  it;  but  we  cannot,  be- 
cause we  give  it  for  granted  that  we  cannot,  without  try- 
ing whether  we  can  or  not.  And  what  is  the  meaning  of 
all  this  but  that  we  are  pleased  with  our  vices,  and  willing  to 
be  mastered  by  them?  so  that  we  had  rather  excuse  than  cast 
them  ofF.  The  true  reason  is,  we  will  not,  but  the  pretence  is, 
that  we  cannot:  and  we  are  not  only  under  a  necessity  of 
error,  but  the  very  love  of  it. 

To  give  you  now  a  brief  of  my  own  character:  I  am  none 
of  those  that  take  delight  in  tumults,  and  in  struggling  with 
difficulties.  I  had  rather  be  quiet  than  in  arms;  for  I  account 
it  my  duty  to  bear  up  against  ill  fortune;  but  still  without 
choosing  it.  I  am  no  friend  to  contention,  especially  to  that 
of  the  bar;  but  I  am  very  much  a  servant  to  all  honest  busi- 
ness that  may  be  done  in  a  corner.  And  there  is  no  retreat 
so  unhappy  as  not  to  yield  entertainment  for  a  great  mind; 
by  which  a  man  may  make  himself  profitable  both  to  his 
country  and  to  his  friends,  by  his  wisdom,  by  his  interest,  and 
by  his  counsel.  It  is  the  part  of  a  good  patriot  to  prefer  men 
of  worth;  to  defend  the  innocent;  to  provide  good  laws; 
and  to  advise  in  war,  and  in  peace.  But  is  not  he  as  good  a 
patriot  that  instructs  youth  in  virtue;  that  furnishes  the  world 
with  precepts  of  morality,  and  keeps  human  nature  within 
the  bounds  of  right  reason  ?  Who  is  the  greater  man,  he  that 
pronounces  a  sentence  upon  the  bench,  or  he  that  in  his 
study  reads  us  a  lecture  of  justice,  piety,  patience,  fortitude, 
the  knowledge  of  Heaven,  the  contempt  of  death,  and  the 
blessing  of  a  good  conscience?  The  soldier  that  guards  the 
ammunition  and  the  baggage  is  as  necessary  as  he  that  fights 
the  battle.  Was  not  Cato  a  greater  example  than  either 
Ulysses  or  Hercules?  They  had  the  fame,  you  know,  of  being 
indefatigable;  despisers  of  pleasure;  and  great  conquerors, 
both  of  their  enemies  and  of  their  appetites.  But  Cato,  I 
must  confess,  had  no  encounters  with  monsters;  nor  did  he 
fall  into  those  times  of  credulity,  when  people  believed  that 


294  EPISTLES 

the  weight  of  the  heavens  rested  upon  one  man's  shoulders; 
but  he  grappled  with  ambition,  and  the  unlimited  desire  of 
power;  which  the  whole  world,  divided  under  a  triumvirate, 
was  not  able  to  satisfy.  He  opposed  himself  to  the  vices  of  a 
degenerate  city,  even  when  it  was  now  sinking  under  its  own 
weight.  He  stood  single,  and  supported  the  falling  common- 
wealth, until  at  last,  as  inseparable  friends,  they  were  crushed 
together;  for  neither  would  Cato  survive  the  public  liberty, 
nor  did  that  liberty  outlive  Cato.  To  give  you  now  a  farther 
account  of  myself:  I  am  naturally  a  friend  to  all  the  rules 
and  methods  of  sobriety  and  moderation.  I  like  the  old- 
fashioned  plate  that  was  left  me  by  my  country-father:  it  is 
plain  and  heavy;  and  yet,  for  all  this,  there  is  a  kind  of  daz- 
zling, methinks,  in  ostentations  of  splendour  and  luxury.  But 
it  strikes  the  eye  more  than  the  mind;  and  though  it  may 
shake  a  wise  man,  it  cannot  alter  him.  Yet  it  sends  me  home 
many  times  more  sad,  perhaps,  than  I  went  out;  but  yet,  I 
hope  not  worse;  though  not  without  some  secret  dissatisfac- 
tion at  my  own  condition.  Upon  these  thoughts  I  betake 
myself  to  my  philosophy;  and  then,  methinks,  I  am  not  well 
unless  I  put  myself  into  some  public  employment:  not  for  the 
honour  or  the  profit  of  it,  but  only  to  place  myself  in  a  sta- 
tion where  I  may  be  serviceable  to  my  country  and  to  my 
friends.  But  when  I  come,  on  the  other  side,  to  consider  the 
uneasiness,  the  abuses,  and  the  loss  of  time,  that  attends  pub- 
lic affairs,  I  get  me  home  again  as  fast  as  I  can,  and  take  up 
a  resolution  of  spending  the  remainder  of  my  days  within 
the  privacy  of  my  own  walls.  How  great  a  madness  is  it  to 
set  our  hearts  upon  trifles;  especially  to  the  neglect  of  the 
most  serious  offices  of  our  lives,  and  the  most  important  end 
of  our  being?  How  miserable,  as  well  as  short,  is  their  life, 
that  compass  with  great  labour  what  they  possess  with  great- 
er; and  hold  with  anxiety  what  they  acquire  with  trouble! 
But  we  are  governed  in  all  things  by  opinion,  and  every 
thing  is  to  us  as  we  believe  it.  What  is  poverty  but  a  priva- 
tive; and  not  intended  of  what  a  man  has,  but  of  that  which 
he  has  notl  The  great  subject  of  human  calamities  is  money. 
Take  all  the  rest  together,  as  death,  sickness,  fear,  desire,  pain, 
labour;  and  those  which  proceed  from  money  exceed  them 
all.  It  is  a  wonderful  folly,  that  of  tumblers,  rope-dancers, 
divers;  what  pains  they  take,  and  what  hazards  they  run,  for 
an  inconsiderable  gain!  And  yet  we  have  not  patience  for 
the  thousandth  part  of  that  trouble,  though  it  would  put  us 
into  the  possession  of  an   everlasting  quiet.       Epicurus  for 


EPISTLES  295 

experiment  sake,  confined  himself  to  a  narrower  allowance 
than  that  of  the  severest  prisons  to  the  most  capital  offend- 
ers; and  found  himself  at  ease  too  in  a  stricter  diet  than  a 
man  in  the  worst  condition  needs  to  fear.  This  was  to  pre- 
vent Fortune,  and  to  frustrate  the  worst  which  she  can  do. 
We  should  never  know  any  thing  to  be  superfluous  but  by 
the  want  of  it.  How  many  things  do  we  provide  only  be- 
cause others  have  them,  and  for  fashion-sake?  Caligula  of- 
fered Demetrius  5000  crowns;  who  rejected  them  with  a 
smile,  as  who  should  say,  "It  was  so  little  it  did  him  no 
honour  the  refusing  of  it.  Nothing  less,"  says  he,  "than 
the  offer  of  his  whole  empire  would  have  been  a  temptation 
to  have  tried  the  firmness  of  my  virtue."  By  this  contempt 
of  riches  is  intended  only  the  fearless  possession  of  them; 
and  the  way  to  attain  that  is  to  persuade  ourselves  that  we 
may  live  happily  without  them.  How  many  of  those  things, 
which  reason  formerly  told  us  were  superfluous  and  mimical, 
do  we  now  find  to  be  so  by  experience?  But  we  are  misled 
by  the  counterfeit  of  good  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  suspicion 
of  evil  on  the  other.  Not  that  riches  are  an  eflftcient  cause 
of  mischief;  but  they  are  a  precedent  cause,  by  way  of  irri- 
tation and  attraction:  for  they  have  so  near  a  resemblance  of 
good,  that  most  people  take  them  to  be  good.  Nay,  virtue 
itself  is  also  a  precedent  cause  of  evil;  as  many  are  envied 
for  their  wisdom,  or  for  their  justice;  which  does  not  arise 
from  the  thing  itself,  but  from  the  irreproveable  power  of  vir- 
tue, that  forces  all  men  to  admire  and  to  love  it.  That  is 
not  good  that  is  more  advantageous  to  us,  but  that  which  is 
only  so. 


EPISTLE  VI 

The  blessings  of  a  virtuous  retirement.  How  we  come 
to  the  knowledge  0/ virtue.  A  distinction  betwixt  good 
and  honest.     A  wise  man  contents  himself  with  his  lot 

There  is  no  opportunity  escapes  me  of  inquiring  where 
you  are,  what  you  do,  and  what  company  you  keep:  and  I 
am  well  enough  pleased  that  I  can  hear  nothing  concerning 
you:  for  it  shows  that  you  live  retired.  Not  but  that  I  durst 
trust  you  with  the  wide  world  too;    but,  however,  it  is  not 


296  EPISTLES 

easy  such  a  general  conversation,  nor  is  it  absolutely  false 
neither:  for  though  it  should  not  corrupt  you,  it  would  yet 
hinder  you.  Now,  wheresoever  you  are,  know,  that  I  am 
with  you,  and  you  are  so  to  live  as  if  I  both  heard  and  saw 
you.  Your  letters  are  really  blessings  to  me,  and  the  sense 
of  your  improvements  relieves  me,  even  under  the  consider- 
ation of  my  own  decay.  Remember,  that  as  I  am  old,  so  are 
you  mortal.  Be  true  to  yourself,  and  examine  yourself 
whether  you  be  of  the  same  mind  to-day  that  you  were 
yesterday;  for  that  is  a  sign  of  perfect  wisdom.  And  yet 
give  me  leave  to  tell  you,  that  though  change  of  mind  be  a 
token  of  imperfection,  it  is  the  business  of  my  age  to  unwill 
one  day  that  which  I  willed  another.  And  let  me  recom- 
mend it  to  your  practice  too,  in  many  cases;  for  the  abate- 
ment of  our  appetites  and  of  our  errors  is  the  best  entertain- 
ment of  mankind.  It  is  for  young  men  to  gather  knowledge, 
and  for  old  men  to  use  it:  and  assure  yourself  that  no  man 
gives  a  fairer  account  of  his  time  than  he  that  makes  it  his 
daily  study  to  make  himself  better.  If  you  be  in  health,  and 
think  it  worth  your  while  to  become  the  master  of  yourself, 
it  is  my  desire  and  my  advice,  that  you  apply  yourself  to 
wisdom  with  your  whole  heart,  and  judge  of  your  improve- 
ment, not  by  what  you  speak,  or  by  what  you  write,  but  by 
the  firmness  of  your  mind,  and  the  government  of  your 
passions.  What  extremities  have  some  men  endured  in 
sieges,  even  for  the  ambition  and  interest  of  other  people! 
And  shall  not  a  man  venture  the  crossing  of  an  intemperate 
lust  for  the  conquest  of  himself?  You  do  very  well  to  betake 
yourself  to  a  private  life:  and  better  yet,  in  keeping  of  that 
privacy  private:  for,  otherwise  your  retreat  would  look 
like  ostentation.  The  greatest  actions  of  our  lives  are  those 
that  we  do  in  a  recess  from  business:  beside  that,  there  are 
some  governments  and  employments  that  a  man  would  not 
have  any  thing  to  do  withal.  And  then  it  is  to  be  considered 
that  public  offices  and  commissions  are  commonly  bought 
with  our  money;  whereas  the  great  blessings  of  leisure  and 
privacy  cost  us  nothing.  Contemplation  is  undoubtedly  the 
best  entertainment  of  peace;  and  only  a  shorter  cut  to 
heaven  itself:  over  and  above  that,  business  makes  us  trou- 
blesome to  others,  and  unquiet  to  ourselves:  for  the  end  of  one 
appetite  or  design  is  the  beginning  of  another;  to  say  nothing 
of  the  expense  of  time  in  vexatious  attendances,  and  the 
danger  of  competitors.  Such  a  man,  perhaps,  has  more 
friends  at  Court  than  I  have;    a  larger  train,  a  fairer  estate, 


EPISTLES  297 

more  profitable  offices,  and  more  illustrious  titles:  but  what 
do  I  care  to  be  overcome  by  men  in  some  cases,  so  long  as 
Fortune  is  overcome  by  me  in  all?  These  considerations 
should  have  been  earlier;  for  it  is  too  late  in  the  article  of 
death  to  project  the  happiness  of  life.  And  yet  there  is  no 
age  better  adapted  to  virtue  than  that  which  comes  by  many 
experiments,  and  long  sufferings,  to  the  knowledge  of  it:  for 
our  lusts  are  then  weak,  and  our  judgment  strong;  and  wis- 
dom is  the  effect  of  time. 

Some  are  of  opinion  that  we  come  to  the  knowledge  of 
virtue  by  chance,  (which  were  an  indignity;)  others,  by  ob- 
servation, and  comparing  matters  of  fact  one  with  another; 
the  understanding  by  a  kind  of  analogy,  approving  this  or  that 
for  good  and  honest.  These  are  two  points,  which  others 
make  wholly  different,  but  the  Stoics  only  divide  them. 
Some  will  have  every  thing  to  be  good  that  is  beneficial  to  us; 
as  money,  wine,  and  so  lower,  to  the  meanest  things  we  use. 
And  they  reckon  that  to  be  honest  where  there  is  a  reasonable 
discharge  of  a  common  duty;  as  reverence  to  a  parent,  ten- 
derness to  a  friend,  the  exposing  of  ourselves  for  our  country, 
and  the  regulating  of  our  lives  according  to  moderation  and 
prudence.  The  Stoics  reckon  them  to  be  two:  but  so  as  to 
make  those  two,  yet  out  of  one.  They  will  have  nothing  to  be 
good  but  what  is  honest,  nor  any  thing  to  be  honest,  but  that 
which  is  good;  so  that  in  some  sort  they  are  mixed  and  in- 
separable. There  are  some  things  that  are  neither  good  nor 
bad;  as  war,  embassy,  jurisdiction;  but  these,  in  the  lauda- 
ble administration  of  them,  do,  of  doubtful,  become  good, 
which  good  is  only  a  consequent  upon  honesty;  but  honesty 
is  good  in  itself,  and  the  other  flows  from  it.  There  are  some 
actions  that  seem  to  us  matter  of  benignity,  humanity,  gen- 
erosity, resolution;  which  we  are  apt  to  admire  as  perfect: 
and  yet,  upon  further  examination,  we  find  that  great  vices 
were  concealed  under  the  resemblances  of  eminent  virtues. 
Glorious  actions  are  the  images  of  virtue,  but  yet  many  things 
seem  to  be  good  that  are  evil,  and  evil  that  are  good:  and  the 
skill  is,  to  distinguish  betwixt  things  that  are  so  much  alike  in 
show  and  so  disagreeing  in  effect.  We  are  led  to  the  under- 
standing of  virtue  by  the  congruity  we  find  in  such  and  such 
actions  to  nature  and  right  reason;  by  the  order,  grace,  and 
constancy  of  them,  and  by  a  certain  majesty  and  greatness 
that  surpass  all  other  things.  From  hence  proceeds  a  hap- 
py life,  to  which  nothing  comes  amiss;    but,  on  the  contrary, 


298  EPISTLES 

every  thing  succeeds  to  our  very  wish.  There  is  no  wrangling 
with  fortune:  no  being  out  of  humour  for  accidents;  what- 
soever befalls  me  in  my  lot,  and  whether  in  appearance  it 
be  good  or  bad,  it  is  God's  pleasure;  and  it  is  my  duty  to 
bear  it.  When  a  man  has  once  gotten  a  habit  of  virtue,  all 
his  actions  are  equal:  he  is  constantly  one  and  the  same  man; 
and  he  does  well,  not  only  upon  counsel,  but  out  of  custom 
too.  Shall  I  tell  you  now,  in  a  word,  the  sum  of  human 
duty?  Patience,  where  we  are  to  suffer;  and  ■prudence  in 
things  we  do.  It  is  a  frequent  complaint  in  the  world,  that 
the  things  we  enjoy  are  but  few,  transitory,  and  uncertain;  so 
ungrateful  a  construction  do  we  make  of  the  divine  bounty. 
Hence  it  is,  that  we  are  neither  willing  to  die,  nor  contented 
to  live,  betwixt  the  fear  of  the  one  and  the  detestation  of 
the  other:  hence  it  is  that  we  are  perpetually  shifting  of 
counsels,  and  still  craving  of  more;  because  that  which  we 
call  felicity  is  not  able  to  fill  us.  And  what  is  the  reason,  but 
that  we  are  not  yet  come  to  that  immense  and  insuperable 
good  which  leaves  us  nothing  further  to  desire  .f*  In  that  bless- 
ed estate  we  feel  no  want;  we  are  abundantly  pleased  with 
what  we  have;  and  what  we  have  not,  we  do  not  regard: 
so  that  every  thing  is  great  because  it  is  sufficient.  If  we 
quit  this  hold,  there  will  be  no  place  for  the  offices  of  faith 
and  piety;  in  the  discharge  whereof  we  must  both  suffer 
many  things  that  the  world  calls  evil,  and  part  with  many 
things  which  are  commonly  accounted  good.  True  joy  is 
everlasting,  pleasures  are  false  and  fugitive.  It  is  a  great 
encouragement  to  well-doing,  that  when  we  are  once  in  the 
possession  of  virtue,  it  is  our  own  for  ever.  While  I  speak 
this  to  you  I  prescribe  to  myself:  what  I  write  I  read;  and 
reduce  all  my  meditations  to  the  ordering  of  my  own  man- 
ners. There  is  nothing  so  mean  and  ordinary  but  it  is  il- 
lustrated by  virtue;  and  externals  are  of  no  more  use  to  it 
than  the  light  of  a  candle  to  the  glory  of  the  sun. 

It  is  often  objected  to  me,  that  I  advise  people  to  quit  the 
world,  to  retire,  and  content  themselves  with  a  good  con- 
science. But  what  becomes  of  your  precepts  then,  (say 
they,)  that  enjoin  us  to  die  in  action.?  To  whom  I  must  an- 
swer, "That  I  am  never  more  in  action  than  when  I  am 
alone  in  my  study:  where  I  have  only  locked  up  myself  in 
private  to  attend  the  business  of  the  public.  I  do  not  lose 
so  much  as  one  day;  nay,  and  part  of  the  night  too  to  borrow 
for  my  book.     When  my  eyes  will  serve  me  no  longer,  I  fall 


EPISTLES  299 

asleep,  and  until  then  I  work.  I  have  retired  myself,  not 
only  from  men,  but  from  business  also;  and  my  own,  in  the 
first  place,  to  attend  the  ser^/ice  of  posterity;  in  hope,  that 
what  I  now  write  may,  in  some  measure,  be  profitable  to  fu- 
ture generations." 

But  it  is  no  new  thing,  I  know,  to  calumniate  virtue  and 
good  men:  for  sick  eyes  will  not  endure  the  light;  but,  like 
birds  of  night,  they  fly  from  it  into  their  holes.  Why  does 
such  a  man  talk  so  much  of  his  philosophy,  and  yet  live  in 
magnificence.?  of  contemning  riches,  life,  health;  and  yet 
cherish  and  maintain  them  with  the  greatest  care  imaginable? 
Banishment,  he  says,  is  but  an  idle  name;  and  yet  he  can 
grow  old  within  his  own  walls.  He  puts  no  difference  be- 
twixt a  long  life  and  a  short,  and  yet  he  spins  out  his  own  as 
far  as  it  will  go.  The  thing  is  this,  he  does  not  contemn 
temporary  blessings  so  as  to  refuse  or  drive  them  away;  but 
if  they  come  they  are  welcome;  if  not,  he  will  never  break 
his  heart  for  the  want  of  them;  he  takes  them  into  his  house, 
not  into  his  soul;  and  he  makes  use  of  them  only  as  matter 
for  his  virtue  to  work  upon.  There  is  no  doubt  but  a  wise 
man  may  show  himself  better  in  riches  than  in  poverty;  that 
is  to  say,  his  temperance,  his  liberality,  his  magnificence, 
providence,  and  prudence,  will  be  more  conspicuous.  He 
will  be  a  wise  man  still  if  he  should  want  a  leg  or  an  arm; 
but  yet  he  had  rather  be  perfect.  He  is  pleased  with  wealth, 
as  he  would  be  at  sea  with  a  fair  wind,  or  with  a  glance  of 
the  warm  sun  in  a  frosty  morning;  so  that  the  things  which 
we  call  indifferent  are  not  yet  without  their  value;  and  some 
greater  than  others;  but  with  this  difference,  betwixt  the 
philosophers  and  the  common  people,  riches  are  the  servants  of 
the  one  and  the  masters  of  the  other.  From  the  one,  if  they 
depart,  they  carry  away  nothing  but  themselves;  but  from 
the  other,  they  take  away  the  very  heart  and  peace  of  the 
possessor  along  with  them.  It  is  true,  that  if  I  might  have 
my  choice,  I  would  have  health  and  strength;  and  yet  if  I 
come  to  be  visited  with  pain  or  sickness,  I  will  endeavour  to 
improve  them  to  my  advantage,  by  making  a  righteous  judg- 
ment of  them,  as  I  ought  to  do  of  all  the  appointments  of 
Providence.  So  that,  as  they  are  not  good  in  themselves, 
neither  are  they  evil,  but  matter  of  exercise  for  our  vir- 
tues; of  temperance  on  the  one  hand,  and  of  resignation  on 
the  other. 


300  EPISTLES 

EPISTLE  VII 

Of  impertinent  studies^  and  impertinent  men.     Philoso- 
phers the  best  companions 

He  that  duly  considers  the  business  of  life  and  death,  will 
find  that  he  has  little  time  to  spare  from  that  study:  and  yet 
how  we  trifle  away  our  hours  upon  impertinent  niceties  and 
cavils!  Will  Plato's  imaginary  ideas  make  me  an  honest  man? 
There  is  neither  certainty  in  them,  nor  substance.  "A  mouse 
is  a  syllable;  but  a  syllable  does  not  eat  cheese:  therefore  a 
mouse  does  not  eat  cheese."  Oh!  these  childish  follies!  Is  it 
for  these  that  we  spend  our  blood  and  our  good  humour,  and 
grow  gray  in  our  closets?  We  are  a  jesting  when  we  should 
be  helping  the  miserable;  as  well  ourselves  as  others. 
There  is  no  sporting  with  men  in  distress.  The  felicity  of 
mankind  depends  upon  the  counsel  of  philosophers.  Let  us 
rather  consider  what  nature  has  made  superfluous  and  what 
necessary;  how  easy  our  conditions  are,  and  how  delicious 
that  life  which  is  governed  by  reason  rather  than  opinion. 
There  are  impertinent  studies  as  well  as  impertinent  men. 
Didymus  the  grammarian  wrote  4000  books;  wherein  he  is 
much  concerned  to  discover  where  Homer  was  born;  who 
was  iEneas's  true  mother;  and  whether  Anacreon  was  the 
greater  whoremaster  or  drunkard;  with  other  fopperies,  that 
a  man  would  labour  to  forget  if  he  knew  them.  It  is  not  an 
important  question  which  of  the  two  was  first,  the  mallet  or 
the  tongs?  Some  people  are  extremely  inquisitive  to  know 
how  many  oars  Ulysses  had;  which  was  first  written,  the 
Iliads  or  the  Odysses;  or  if  they  were  both  done  by  the  same 
hand.  A  man  is  never  a  jot  the  more  learned  for  this  curi- 
osity, but  much  the  more  troublesome.  Am  I  ever  the  more 
just,  the  more  moderate,  valiant,  or  liberal,  for  knowing  that 
Curlus  Dentatus  was  the  first  that  carried  elephants  in  tri- 
umph? Teach  me  my  duty  to  Providence,  to  my  neighbour, 
and  to  myself:  to  dispute  with  Socrates;  to  doubt  with  Car- 
neades;  to  set  up  my  rest  with  Epicurus;  to  master  my  ap- 
petites with  the  Stoics;  and  to  renounce  the  world  with  the 
Cynic.  What  a  deal  of  business  there  is,  first,  to  make  Ho- 
mer a  philosopher;  and,  secondly,  in  what  classes  to  range 
him?  One  will  have  him  be  a  Stoic,  a  friend  to  virtue,  and  an 
enemy  to  pleasure;    preferring  honesty  even  to  immortality 


EPISTLES  301 

itself:  another  makes  him  an  Epicurean;  one  that  loves  his 
quiet,  and  to  spend  his  time  in  good  company:  some  are 
positive  in  it  that  he  was  a  Peripatetic;  and  others,  that  he 
was  a  Sceptic.  But  it  is  clear,  that  in  being  all  these  things, 
he  was  not  any  one  of  them.  These  divided  opinions  do  not 
at  all  hinder  us  from  agreeing,  upon  the  main,  that  he  was 
a  wise  man.  Let  us  therefore  apply  ourselves  to  those  things 
that  made  him  so,  and  even  let  the  rest  alone. 

It  was  a  pleasant  humour  of  Calvicius  Sabinus,  a  rich  man, 
and  one  that  managed  a  very  good  fortune  with  a  very  ill 
grace.  He  had  neither  wit  nor  memory,  but  would  fain  pass 
for  a  learned  man,  and  so  took  several  into  his  family;  and 
whatsoever  they  knew  he  assumed  to  himself.  There  are  a 
sort  of  people  that  are  never  well  but  at  theatres,  spectacles, 
and  public  places;  men  of  business,  but  it  is  only  in  their 
faces:  for  they  wander  up  and  down  without  any  design; 
like  pismires,  eager  and  empty;  and  every  thing  they  do  is 
only  as  it  happens.  This  is  an  humour  which  a  man  may  call 
a  kind  of  restless  laziness.  Others  you  shall  have  that  are 
perpetually  in  haste,  as  they  were  crying  Fire,  or  running  for 
a  midwife,  and  all  this  hurry,  perhaps,  only  to  salute  some- 
body that  had  no  mind  to  take  notice  of  them;  or  some  such 
trivial  errand.  At  night,  when  they  come  home  tired  and 
weary,  ask  them  why  they  went  out?  where  they  have  been? 
and  what  they  have  done?  it  is  a  very  slender  account  they 
are  able  to  give  you:  and  yet  the  next  day  they  take  the 
same  jaunt  over  again:  this  is  a  kind  of  fantastical  industry, 
a  great  deal  of  pains  taken  to  no  purpose  at  all:  twenty 
visits  made,  and  nobody  at  home,  (they  themselves  least  of 
all.)  They  that  have  this  vice  are  commonly  hearkeners, 
talebearers,  newsmongers,  meddlers  in  other  people's  affairs, 
and  curious  after  secrets,  which  a  man  can  neither  safely  hear 
nor  report.  These  men  of  idle  employment,  that  run  up  and 
down  eternally  vexing  others,  and  themselves  too;  that 
thrust  themselves  into  all  companies;  what  do  they  get  by 
it?  One  man  is  asleep,  another  at  supper,  a  third  in  compa- 
ny, a  fourth  in  haste,  a  fifth  gives  them  the  slip;  and  when 
their  folly  has  gone  the  round,  they  close  up  the  day  with 
shame  and  repentance.  Whereas  Zeno,  Pythagoras,  Demo- 
critus,  Aristotle,  Theophrastus,  and  all  the  patrons  of  philo- 
sophy and  virtue,  they  are  always  at  leisure,  and  in  good  hu- 
mour; familiar,  profitable:  a  man  never  comes  away  empty- 
handed  from  them,  but  full  of  comfort  and  satisfaction;   they 


302  EPISTLES 

make  all  past  ages  present  to  us,  or  us  their  contemporaries. 
The  doors  of  these  men  are  open  night  and  day;  and  in  their 
conversation  there  is  neither  danger,  treachery,  nor  expense; 
but  we  are  the  wiser,  the  happier,  and  the  richer  for  it.  How 
blessedly  does  a  man  spend  his  time  in  this  company,  where 
he  may  advise  in  all  the  difficulties  of  life!  Here  is  counsel 
without  reproach,  and  praise  without  flattery.  We  cannot 
be  the  choosers  of  our  own  parents,  but  of  our  friends  we  may; 
and  adopt  ourselves  into  these  noble  families.  This  is  the 
way  of  making  mortality,  in  a  manner  to  be  immortal;  the 
time  past  we  make  to  be  our  own  by  remembrance;  the  pre- 
sent, by  use;  and  the  future,  by  providence  and  foresight. 
That  only  may  properly  be  said  to  be  the  long  life  that  draws 
all  ages  into  one;  and  that  a  short  one  that  forgets  the  past,  neg- 
lects the  present,  and  is  solicitous  for  the  time  to  come.  But  it  is 
not  yet  sufficient  to  know  what  Plato  or  Zeno  said,  unless  we 
make  it  all  our  own  by  hahit  and  practice;  and  improve  both 
the  world  and  ourselves  by  an  example  of  life  answerable  to 
their  precepts. 


EPISTLE  VIII 

Against  singularity  of  manners  and  behaviour 

It  is  the  humour  of  many  people  to  be  singular  in  their 
dress  and  manner  of  life,  only  to  the  end  that  they  may  be 
taken  notice  of.  Their  clothes,  forsooth,  must  be  coarse  and 
slovenly,  their  heads  and  beards  neglected,  their  lodgings 
upon  the  ground,  and  they  live  in  an  open  defiance  of  money. 
What  is  all  this,  upon  the  whole  matter,  but  an  ambitious 
vanity  that  has  crept  in  at  the  back-door?  A  wise  man  will 
keep  himself  clear  of  all  these  fooleries  without  disturbing 
public  customs,  or  making  himself  a  gazing-stock  to  the  peo- 
ple. But  will  this  secure  him,  think  you?  I  can  no  more 
warrant  it  than  that  a  temperate  man  shall  have  his  health; 
but  it  is  very  probable  that  it  may.  A  ■philosopher  has  enough 
to  do  to  stand  right  in  the  world,  let  him  be  never  so  modest; 
and  his  outside  shall  be  still  like  that  of  other  people,  let  them 
be  never  so  unlike  within.  His  garments  shall  be  neither  rich 
nor  sordid.  No  matter  for  arms,  mottoes,  and  other  curiosities 
upon  his  plate;   but  he  shall  not  yet  make  it  a  matter  of  con- 


EPISTLES  303 

science  to  have  no  place  at  all.  He  that  likes  an  earthen  ves- 
sel as  well  as  a  silver,  has  not  a  greater  mind  than  he  that 
uses  plate  and  reckons  it  as  dirt.  It  is  our  duty  to  live  better 
than  the  common  people,  but  not  in  opposition  to  them;  as 
if  philosophy  were  a  faction;  for  by  so  doing,  instead  of  re- 
forming and  gaining  upon  them,  we  drive  them  away;  and 
when  they  find  it  unreasonable  to  imitate  us  in  all  things, 
they  will  follow  us  in  nothing.  Our  business  must  be  to  live 
according  to  nature,  and  to  own  the  sense  of  outward  things 
with  other  people;  not  to  torment  the  body,  and  with  ex- 
clamations against  that  which  is  sweet  and  cleanly  to  delight 
in  nastiness;  and  to  use  not  only  coarse  but  a  sluttish  and 
offensive  diet.  Wisdom  preaches  temperance,  not  mortifica- 
tion; and  a  man  may  be  a  very  good  husband  without  being 
a  sloven.  He  that  steers  a  middle  course  betwixt  virtue  and 
popularity,  that  is  to  say,  betwixt  good  manners  and  discre- 
tion, shall  gain  both  approbation  and  reverence.  But  what 
if  a  man  governs  himself  in  his  clothes,  in  his  diet,  in  his 
exercises,  as  he  ought  to  do?  It  is  not  that  his  garments,  his 
meat  and  drink,  or  his  walking,  are  things  simply  good;  but 
it  is  the  tenor  of  a  man's  life,  and  the  conformity  of  it  to  right 
nature  and  reason.  Philosophy  obliges  us  to  humanity, 
society,  and  the  ordinary  use  of  external  things.  It  is  not  a 
thing  to  pleasure  the  people  with,  or  to  entertain  an  idle  hour, 
but  a  study  for  the  forming  of  the  mind,  and  the  guidance  of 
human  life.  And  a  wise  man  should  also  live  as  he  discourses, 
and  in  all  points  be  like  himself;  and,  in  the  first  place,  set 
a  value  upon  himself,  before  he  can  pretend  to  become  valu- 
able to  others.  As  well  our  good  deeds  as  our  evil  come 
home  to  us  at  last;  he  that  is  charitable  makes  others  so  by 
his  example,  and  finds  the  comfort  of  that  charity  when  he 
wants  it  himself.  He  that  is  cruel  seldom  finds  mercy.  It  is 
a  hard  matter  for  a  man  to  be  both  popular  and  virtuous;  for 
he  must  be  like  the  people  that  would  oblige  them;  and  the 
kindness  of  dishonest  men  is  not  to  be  acquired  by  honest 
means.  He  lives  by  reason,  not  by  custom:  he  shuns  the 
very  conversation  of  the  intemperate  and  ambitious.  He 
knows  the  danger  of  great  examples  of  wickedness,  and  that 
public  errors  impose  upon  the  world  under  the  authority  of 
precedents;  for  they  take  for  granted  that  they  are  never  out 
of  the  way  so  long  as  they  keep  the  road. 

We   are   beset   with    dangers;    and    therefore    a  wise   man 
should  have  his  virtues  in  continual  readiness  to  encounter 


304  EPISTLES 

them.  Whether  poverty,  loss  of  friends,  pains,  sickness,  or 
the  like,  he  still  maintains  his  post;  whereas  a  fool  is  sur- 
prised at  every  thing,  and  afraid  of  his  very  succours;  either 
he  makes  no  resistance  at  all,  or  else  he  does  it  by  halves. 
He  will  neither  take  advice  from  others,  nor  look  to  him- 
self: he  reckons  upon  philosophy  as  a  thing  not  worth  his 
time;  and  if  he  can  but  get  the  reputation  of  a  good  man 
among  the  common  people,  he  takes  no  farther  care,  but  ac- 
counts that  he  has  done  his  duty. 


EPISTLE  IX 

The  blessings  of  a  vigorous  mind  in  a  decayed  body : 

with  some  pertinent  reflections  of  Seneca  upon  his 
own  age 

When  I  call  Claranus  my  schoolfellow,  I  need  not  say 
any  thing  more  of  his  age,  having  told  you  that  he  and  I 
were  contemporaries.  You  would  not  imagine  how  green 
and  vigorous  his  mind  is,  and  the  perpetual  conflict  that  it 
has  with  his  body.  They  were  naturally  ill-matched,  unless 
to  show  that  a  generous  spirit  may  be  lodged  under  any 
shape.  He  has  surmounted  all  difficulties;  and  from  the 
contempt  of  himself  is  advanced  to  the  contempt  of  all 
things  else.  When  I  consider  him  well,  methinks  his  body 
appears  to  me  as  fair  as  his  mind.  If  Nature  could  have 
brought  the  soul  naked  into  the  world,  perhaps  she  would 
have  done  it:  but  yet  she  does  a  greater  thing,  in  exalting 
that  soul  above  all  impediments  of  the  flesh.  It  is  a  great 
happiness  to  preserve  the  force  of  the  mind  in  the  decay  of 
the  body,  and  to  see  the  loss  of  appetite  more  than  requited 
with  the  love  of  virtue.  But  whether  I  owe  this  comfort  to 
my  age,  or  to  wisdom,  is  the  question;  and  whether,  if  I 
could  any  longer,  I  would  not  still  do  the  same  things  over 
again  which  I  ought  not  to  do.  If  age  had  no  other  pleasure 
than  this,  that  it  neither  cares  for  any  thing,  nor  stands  in 
need  of  any  thing,  it  were  a  great  one  to  me  to  have  left  all 
my  painful  and  troublesome  lusts  behind  me.  But  "it  is 
uneasy,"  you  will  say,  "to  be  always  in  fear  of  death."  As 
if  that  apprehension  did  not  concern  a  young  man  as  well  as 
an  old;  or  that  death  only  called  us  according  to  our  years. 
I  am,  however,  beholden  to  my  old  age,  that  has  now  con- 


EPISTLES  305 

fined  me  to  my  bed,  and  put  me  out  of  condition  of  doing 
those  things  any  longer  which  I  should  not  do.  The  less  my 
mind  has  to  do  with  my  body  the  better:  and  if  age  put  an 
end  to  my  desires,  and  does  the  business  of  virtue,  there  can 
be  no  cause  of  complaint;  nor  can  there  be  any  gentler  end 
than  to  melt  away  in  a  kind  of  dissolution.  Where  fire 
meets  with  opposition,  and  matter  to  work  upon,  It  is  furious 
and  rages;  but  where  it  finds  no  fuel,  as  In  old  age,  It  goes 
out  quietly  for  want  of  nourishment.  Nor  is  the  body  the 
settled  habitation  of  the  mind,  but  a  temporary  lodging, 
which  we  are  to  leave  whensoever  the  master  of  the  house 
pleases.  Neither  does  the  soul,  when  it  has  left  the  body, 
any  more  care  what  becomes  of  the  carcass,  and  the  several 
parts  of  It,  than  a  man  does  for  the  shaving  of  his  beard 
under  the  hand  of  the  barber.  There  is  not  any  thing  that 
exposes  a  man  to  more  vexation  and  reproach  than  the  over- 
much love  of  the  body;  for  sense  neither  looks  forward  nor 
backward,  but  only  upon  the  present:  nor  does  it  judge  of 
good  or  evil,  or  foresee  consequences,  which  give  a  con- 
nexion to  the  order  and  series  of  things,  and  to  the  unity  of 
life.  Not  but  that  every  man  has  naturally  a  love  for  his 
own  carcass,  as  poor  people  love  even  their  own  beggarly 
cottages;  they  are  old  acquaintances,  and  loth  to  part;  and 
I  am  not  against  the  indulging  them  of  it  neither,  provided 
that  I  make  not  myself  a  slave  to  it;  for  he  that  serves  it  has 
many  masters.  Beside  that,  we  are  in  continual  disorder; 
one  while  with  gripes,  pains  in  the  head,  toothache,  gout, 
stone,  defluxions:  sometimes  with  too  much  blood,  other 
while  with  too  little:  and  yet  this  frail  and  putrid  carcass  of 
ours  values  itself  as  It  were  Immortal.  We  put  no  bounds  to 
our  hopes,  our  avarice,  our  ambition.  The  same  man  Is 
Vatinius  to-day,  and  Cato  to-morrow:  this  hour  as  luxurious 
as  Apicius,  and  the  next  as  temperate  as  Tubero;  now  for  a 
mistress,  by  and  by  for  a  wife:  imperious  this  hour,  servile 
the  next;  thrifty  and  prodigal,  laborious  and  voluptuous,  by 
turns.  But  still  the  goods  or  Ills  of  the  body  do  but  concern 
the  body,  (which  Is  peevish,  sour,  and  anxious,)  without  any 
effect  upon  a  well  composed  mind.  I  was  the  other  day  at 
my  villa,  and  complaining  of  my  charge  of  repairs;  my 
ballijBF  told  me,  "It  was  none  of  his  fault;  for  the  house  was 
old,  and  he  had  much  ado  to  keep  it  from  falling  upon  his 
head."     Well,  thought  I,  "And  what  am  I  myself  then,  that 


3o6  EPISTLES 

saw  the  laying  of  the  first  stone?"  In  the  gardens,  I  found 
the  trees  as  much  out  of  order,  the  boughs  knotted  and  with- 
ered, and  their  bodies  over-run  with  moss.  "This  would  not 
have  been,"  said  I,  "if  you  had  trenched  them,  and  watered 
them,  as  you  should  have  done."  "By  my  soul,  master," 
says  the  poor  fellow,  "I  have  done  what  I  could:  but,  alas! 
they  are  all  dotards,  and  spent."  "What  am  I,  then,"  thought 
I  to  myself,  "that  planted  all  these  trees  with  my  own 
hands?"  And  then  I  come  to  bethink  myself,  that  age  itself  is 
not  yet  without  its  pleasures,  if  we  did  but  know  how  to  use 
them;  and  that  the  best  morsel  is  reserved  for  the  last;  or 
at  worst,  it  is  equivalent  to  the  enjoying  of  pleasures,  not  to 
stand  in  need  of  any.  It  is  but  yesterday,  methinks,  that  I 
went  to  school:  but  time  goes  faster  with  an  old  man  than 
with  a  young;  perhaps,  because  he  reckons  more  upon  it. 
There  is  hardly  any  man  so  old  but  he  may  hope  for  one  day 
more  yet;  and  the  longest  life  is  but  a  multiplication  of  days; 
nay,  of  hours,  nay,  of  moments.  Our  fate  is  set,  and  the  first 
breath  we  draw,  is  but  the  first  step  towards  our  last.  One 
cause  depends  upon  another;  and  the  course  of  all  things, 
public  and  private,  is  only  a  long  connexion  of  providential 
appointments.  There  is  great  variety  in  our  lives;  but  all 
tends  to  the  same  issue.  Nature  may  use  her  own  bodies  as 
she  pleases;  but  a  good  man  has  this  consolation,  that  no- 
thing perishes  that  he  can  call  his  own.  What  must  be, 
shall  be;  and  that  which  is  a  necessity  to  him  that  struggles, 
is  little  more  than  choice  to  him  that  is  willing.  It  is  better 
to  be  forced  to  any  thing;  but  things  are  easy  when  they  are 
complied  with. 


EPISTLE  X 

Custom  is  a  great  matter  either  in  good  or  ill.  We 
should  check  our  passions  betimes.  Involuntary  mo- 
tions are  invincible 

There  is  nothing  so  hard  but  custom  makes  it  easy  to  us. 
There  are  some  that  never  laughed,  others  that  wholly  ab- 
stain from  wine  and  women,  and  almost  from  sleep.  Much 
use  of  a  coach  makes  us  lose  the  benefit  of  our  legs:  so  that 
we  must  be  infirm  to  be  in  the  fashion,  and  at  last  lose  the 


EPISTLES  307 

very  faculty  of  walking  by  disusing  it.  Some  are  so  plunged 
in  pleasures  that  they  cannot  live  without  them.  And  in  this 
they  are  most  miserable,  that  what  was  at  first  but  superfluous, 
is  now  become  necessary.  But  their  infelicity  seems  to  be  then 
consummate  and  incurable,  when  sensuality  has  laid  hold  of 
the  judgment,  and  wickedness  is  become  a  habit.  Nay,  some 
there  are  that  both  hate  and  persecute  virtue;  and  that  is  the 
last  act  of  desperation.  It  is  much  easier  to  check  our  pas- 
sions in  the  beginning  than  to  stop  them  in  their  course;  for 
if  reason  could  not  hinder  us  at  first,  they  will  go  on  in  de- 
spite of  us.  The  Stoics  will  not  allow  a  wise  man  to  have 
any  passions  at  all.  The  Peripatetics  temper  them;  but  that 
mediocrity  is  altogether  false  and  unprofitable.  And  it  is  all 
one  as  if  they  said  that  we  may  be  a  little  mad  or  a  little  sick. 
If  we  give  any  sort  of  allowance  to  sorrow,  fear,  desires, 
perturbations,  it  will  not  be  in  our  power  to  restrain  them; 
they  are  fed  from  abroad,  and  will  increase  with  their  causes. 
And  if  we  yield  never  so  little  to  them,  the  least  disorder 
works  upon  the  whole  body.  It  is  not  my  purpose  all  this 
while  wholly  to  take  away  any  thing  that  is  either  necessary, 
beneficial,  or  delightful,  to  human  life;  but  to  take  that  away 
which  may  be  vicious  in  it.  When  I  forbid  you  to  desire  any 
thing,  I  am  yet  content  that  you  may  be  willing  to  have  it. 
So  that  I  permit  you  the  same  things;  and  those  very  plea- 
sures will  have  a  better  relish  too,  when  they  are  enjoyed 
without  anxiety;  and  when  you  come  to  command  those  ap- 
petites which  before  you  served.  It  is  natural,  you  will  say, 
to  weep  for  the  loss  of  a  friend,  to  be  moved  at  the  sense  of  a 
good  or  ill  report,  and  to  be  sad  in  adversity.  All  this  I  will 
grant  you;  and  there  is  no  vice  but  something  may  be  said 
for  it.  At  first  it  is  tractable  and  modest;  but  if  we  give  it 
entrance,  we  shall  hardly  get  it  out  again.  As  it  goes  on 
it  gathers  strength,  and  becomes  quickly  ungovernable.  It 
cannot  be  denied  but  that  all  aflTections  flow  from  a  kind  of 
natural  principle,  and  that  it  is  our  duty  to  take  care  of  our- 
selves; but  then,  it  is  our  duty  also  not  to  be  over  indulgent. 
Nature  has  mingled  pleasures  even  with  things  most  neces- 
sary; not  that  we  should  value  them  for  their  own  sakes,  but 
to  make  those  things  which  we  cannot  live  without  to  be 
more  acceptable  to  us.  If  we  esteem  the  pleasure  for  itself, 
it  turns  to  luxury,  it  is  not  the  business  of  Nature  to  raise 
hunger  or  thirst,  but  to  extinguish  it. 


308  EPISTLES 

As  there  are  some  natural  frailties  that  by  care  and  indus- 
try may  be  overcome,  so  there  are  others  that  are  invincible: 
as  for  a  man  that  values  not  his  own  blood  to  swoon  at  the 
sight  of  another  man's.  Involuntary  motions  are  insuper- 
able and  inevitable;  as  the  starting  of  the  hair  at  ill  news, 
blushing  at  a  scurrilous  discourse,  swimming  of  the  head 
upon  the  sight  of  a  precipice,  &c.  Who  can  read  the  story  of 
Clodius's  expelling  Cicero,  and  Anthony's  killing  of  him; 
the  cruelties  of  Marlus,  and  the  proscriptions  of  Sylla;  with- 
out being  moved  at  it?  The  sound  of  a  trumpet,  the  picture 
of  any  thing  that  is  horrid,  the  spectacle  of  an  execution, 
strikes  the  mind,  and  works  upon  the  imagination.  Some 
people  are  strangely  subject  to  sweat,  to  tremble,  to  stam- 
mer; their  very  teeth  will  chatter  in  their  heads,  and  their 
lips  quiver,  and  especially  in  public  assemblies.  These  are 
natural  infirmities;  and  it  is  not  all  the  resolution  in  the 
world  that  can  ever  master  them.  Some  redden  when  they 
are  angry:  Sylla  was  one  of  those;  and  when  the  blood 
flushed  his  face,  you  might  be  sure  he  had  malice  in  his 
heart.  Pompey,  on  the  other  side,  (that  hardly  even  spake 
in  public  without  a  blush)  had  a  wonderful  sweetness  of  na- 
ture: and  it  did  exceedingly  well  with  him.  Your  come- 
dians will  represent  fear,  sadness,  anger,  and  the  like;  but 
when  they  come  to  a  bashful  modesty,  though  they  will  give 
you  humbleness  of  looks,  softness  of  speech,  and  downcast 
eyes,  to  the  very  life,  yet  they  can  never  come  to  express 
a  blush;  for  it  is  a  thing  neither  to  be  commanded  nor  hin- 
dered: but  it  comes  and  goes  of  its  own  accord.  The 
course  of  Nature  is  smooth  and  easy;  but  when  we  come  to 
cross  it,  we  strive  against  the  stream.  It  is  not  for  one  man 
to  act  another's  part;  for  Nature  will  quickly  return,  and 
take  off  the  mask.  There  is  a  kind  of  sacred  instinct  that 
moves  us.  Even  the  worst  have  a  sense  of  virtue.  We  are 
not  so  much  ignorant  as  careless.  Whence  comes  it  that 
grazing  beasts  distinguish  salutary  plants  from  deadly?  A 
chicken  is  afraid  of  a  kite,  and  not  of  a  goose  or  a  peacock, 
which  is  much  bigger;  a  bird  of  a  cat,  and  not  of  a  dog. 
This  is  impulse,  and  not  experiment.  The  cells  of  bees,  and 
the  webs  of  spiders,  are  not  to  be  imitated  by  art,  but  it  is 
Nature  that  teaches  them.  The  stage-player  has  his  actions 
and  gestures  in  readiness;  but  this  is  only  an  improvement 
by  art  of  what  Nature  teaches  them;   who  is  never  at  a  loss 


EPISTLES  309 

for  the  use  of  herself.  We  come  into  the  world  with  this 
knowledge,  and  we  have  it  by  a  natural  institution,  which  is 
no  other  than  a  natural  logic.  We  brought  the  seeds  of  wis- 
dom itself.  There  is  the  goodness  of  God  and  that  of  man; 
the  one  is  immortal,  the  other  mortal;  Nature  perfects  the 
one,  and  study  the  other. 


EPISTLE  XI 

We  are  divided  in  ourselves;  and  confound  good  and  evil 

It  is  no  wonder,  that  men  are  generally  very  much  unsatis- 
fied with  the  world,  when  there  is  not  one  man  of  a  thousand 
that  agrees  with  himself;  and  that  is  the  root  of  our  misery; 
only  we  are  willing  to  charge  our  own  vices  upon  the  malig- 
nity of  Fortune.  Either  we  are  puffed  up  with  pride,  racked 
with  desires,  dissolved  in  pleasures,  or  blasted  with  cares; 
and,  which  perfects  our  unhappiness,  we  are  never  alone,  but 
in  perpetual  conflict  and  controversy  with  our  lusts.  We  are 
startled  at  all  accidents;  we  boggle  at  our  own  shadows,  and 
fright  one  another.  Lucretius  says,  "That  we  are  as  much 
afraid  in  the  light  as  children  in  the  dark:"  but  I  say,  "That 
we  are  all  together  in  darkness,  without  any  light  at  all;  and 
we  run  on  blindfold,  without  so  much  as  groping  out  our  way; 
which  rashness  in  the  dark  is  the  worst  of  madness."  He 
that  is  in  his  way  is  in  hope  of  coming  to  his  journey's  end; 
but  error  is  endless.  Let  every  man  therefore  examine  his 
desires,  whether  they  be  according  to  rectified  nature  or  not. 
That  man's  mind  can  never  be  right  whose  actions  disagree. 
We  must  not  live  by  chance;  for  there  can  be  no  virtue  with- 
out deliberation  and  election:  and  where  we  cannot  be  cer- 
tain, let  us  follow  that  which  is  most  hopeful  and  probable. 
Faith,  justice,  piety,  fortitude,  prudence,  are  venerable,  and 
the  possessions  only  of  good  men:  but  a  plentiful  estate,  a 
brawny  arm,  and  a  firm  body,  are  many  times  the  portion  of 
the  wicked.  The  perfection  of  human  nature  is  that  state 
which  supports  itself,  and  so  is  out  of  the  fear  of  falling.  It 
is  a  great  weakness  for  a  man  to  value  himself  upon  any  thing 
wherein  he  shall  be  outdone  by  fools  and  beasts.  We  are  to 
consider  health,   strength,   beauty,   and   other  advantages  of 


3IO  EPISTLES 

that  kind,  only  as  adventitious  comforts;  we  may  preserve 
them  with  care,  provided  that  we  be  always  ready  to  quit 
them  without  trouble.  There  is  a  pleasure  in  wickedness  as 
well  as  in  virtue;  and  there  are  those  that  take  a  glory  in  it 
too:  wherefore,  our  forefathers  prescribed  us  the  best  life,  and 
not  the  most  plentiful;  and  allowed  us  pleasure  for  a  com- 
panion, but  not  for  a  guide.  We  do  many  times  take  the 
instruments  of  happiness  for  the  happiness  itself;  and  rest 
upon  those  matters  that  are  but  in  the  way  to  it.  That  man 
only  lives  composed  who  thinks  of  every  thing  that  may  hap- 
pen before  he  feels  it.  But  this  is  not  yet  to  advise  either  neg- 
lect or  indifference;  for  I  would  avoid  any  thing  that  may 
hurt  me,  where  I  may  honourably  do  it:  but  yet  I  would 
consider  the  worst  of  things  beforehand.  Examine  the  hope 
and  the  fear;  and  where  things  are  uncertain  favour  yourself, 
and  believe  that  which  you  had  rather  should  come  to  pass. 
There  are  not  many  men  that  know  their  own  minds  but  in 
the  very  instant  of  willing  any  thing.  We  are  for  one  thing 
to-day,  another  thing  to-morrow;  so  that  we  live  and 
die  without  coming  to  any  resolution;  still  seeking  that  else- 
where which  we  may  give  ourselves,  that  is  to  say,  a  good 
mind.  And,  in  truth,  we  do  persuade  ourselves  that,  in  seve- 
ral cases,  we  do  desire  the  thing  which  effectually  we  do  not 
desire:  and  all  this  for  want  of  laying  down  some  certain 
principles  to  make  the  judgment  inflexible  and  steady.  When 
we  do  any  evil,  it  is  either  for  fear  of  a  greater  evil,  or  in 
hope  of  such  a  good  as  may  more  than  balance  that  evil.  So 
that  we  are  here  distracted  betwixt  the  duty  of  finishing  our 
purpose  and  the  fear  of  mischief  and  danger.  This  infirmity 
must  be  discharged.  In  the  pursuit  of  pleasures  we  should 
take  notice,  that  there  are  not  only  sensual  but  sad  pleasures 
also,  which  transport  the  mind  with  adoration,  (though  they 
do  not  tickle  the  senses)  give  us  a  veneration  for  those  virtues 
that  exercise  themselves  in  sweat  and  blood.  All  true  goods 
hold  an  affinity  and  friendship  one  with  another,  and  they 
are  equal;  but  false  ones  have  in  them  much  of  vanity;  they 
are  large  and  specious  to  the  eye,  but,  upon  examination,  they 
want  weight.  Now,  though  virtues  are  all  alike,  they 
may  yet  be  distinguished  into  desirable  and  admirable;  vir- 
tues of  patience  and  of  delight;  but  in  the  matter  of  com- 
mon accidents,  there  is  not  any  thing  which  is  truly  worthy 
either  of  our  joy  or  of  our  fear.     For  reason  is  immoveable; 


EPISTLES  311 

does  not  serve,  but  command  our  senses.  What  is  pleasure 
but  a  low  and  brutish  thing?  Glory  is  vain  and  volatile; 
poverty  only  hard  to  him  that  does  not  resist  it;  superstition 
is  a  frantic  error,  that  fears  where  it  should  love;  and  rudely 
invades  where  it  should  reverentially  worship.  Death  itself 
is  no  evil  at  all,  but  the  common  benefit  and  right  of  nature. 
There  is  a  great  difference  betwixt  those  things  which  are 
good  in  common  opinion,  and  those  which  are  so  in  truth 
and  effect;  the  former  have  the  name  of  good  things,  but  not 
the  propriety:  they  may  befal  us,  but  they  do  not  stick  to 
us;  and  they  may  be  taken  away  without  either  pain  to  us  or 
diminution.  We  may  use  them,  but  not  trust  in  them;  for 
they  are  only  deposited,  and  they  must  and  will  forsake  us. 
The  only  treasure  is  that  which  Fortune  has  no  power  over: 
and  the  greater  it  is,  the  less  envy  it  carries  along  with  it. 
Let  our  vices  die  before  us,  and  let  us  discharge  ourselves  of 
our  dear-bought  pleasures  that  hurt  us,  as  well  past  as  to 
come;  for  they  are  followed  with  repentance  as  well  as  our 
sins.  There  is  neither  substance  in  them  nor  truth;  for  a 
man  can  never  be  weary  of  truth;  but  there  is  a  satiety  in 
error.  The  former  is  always  the  same,  but  the  latter  is  various; 
and  if  a  man  look  near  it,  he  may  see  through  it.  Beside  that, 
the  possessions  of  a  wise  man  are  maintained  with  ease.  He 
has  no  need  of  ambassadors,  armies,  and  castles;  but,  like  God 
himself,  he  does  his  business  without  either  noise  or  tumult. 
Nay,  there  is  something  so  venerable  and  sacred  in  virtue, 
that  if  we  do  but  meet  with  any  thing  like  it,  the  very  coun- 
terfeit pleases  us.  By  the  help  of  philosophy  the  soul  gives 
the  slip  of  the  body,  and  refreshes  itself  in  heaven.  Plea- 
sures at  best  are  short  lived;  but  the  delights  of  virtue  are 
secure  and  perpetual.  Only  we  must  watch,  labour,  and 
attend  it  ourselves:  for  it  is  a  business  not  to  be  done  by  a 
deputy;  nor  is  it  properly  a  virtue  to  be  a  little  better  than 
the  worst.  Will  any  man  boast  of  his  eyes,  because  they  tell 
him  that  the  sun  shines.'*  Neither  is  he  presently  a  good  man 
that  thinks  ill  of  the  bad:  for  wicked  men  do  that  too;  and 
it  is  perhaps  the  greatest  punishment  of  sin,  the  displeasure 
that  it  gives  to  the  author  of  it.  The  saddest  case  of  all  is, 
when  we  become  enamoured  of  our  ruin,  and  make  wicked- 
ness our  study;  when  vice  has  got  a  reputation;  and  when 
the  dissolute  have  lost  the  only  good  thing  they  had  in  their 
excesses,  the  shame  of  offending.     And  yet  the  lewdest  part 


312  EPISTLES 

of  our  corruptions  is  in  private;  which,  if  any  body  had 
looked  on  we  should  never  have  committed.  Wherefore,  let 
us  bear  in  our  minds  the  idea  of  some  great  person,  for  whom 
we  have  an  awful  respect;  and  his  authority  will  even  con- 
secrate the  very  secret  of  our  souls,  and  make  us  not  only 
mend  our  manners,  and  purify  our  very  thoughts,  but  in 
good  time  render  us  exemplary  to  others  and  venerable  to 
ourselves.  If  Scipio  or  Laelius  were  but  in  our  eye,  we 
should  not  dare  to  transgress.  Why  do  we  not  make  our- 
selves then  such  persons  as  in  whose  presence  we  dare  not 
offend  ? 


EPISTLE  XII 

We  are  moved  at  the  novelty  of  things,  for  want  of  un- 
derstanding the  reason  of  them 

The  whole  subject  of  natural  philosophy  falls  under  these 
three  heads;  the  heavens,  the  air,  and  the  earth.  The  first 
treats  of  the  nature  of  the  stars,  their  form  and  magnitude,  the 
substance  of  the  heavens,  whether  solid  or  not,  and  whether 
they  move  of  themselves,  or  be  moved  by  any  thing  else: 
whether  the  stars  be  below  them,  or  fixed  in  their  orbs;  in 
what  manner  the  sun  divides  the  season  of  the  year,  and  the 
like.  The  second  part  inquires  into  the  reason  of  things  be- 
twixt the  heavens  and  the  earth;  as  clouds,  rain,  snow,  thun- 
der, and  whatsoever  the  air  either  does  or  suffers.  The  third 
handles  matters  that  have  a  regard  to  the  earth;  as  the  dif- 
ference of  soils,  minerals,  metals,  plants,  groves,  &c.  "But 
these  are  considerations  wholly  foreign  to  our  purpose,  in  the 
nature  of  them,  though  they  may  be  of  very  proper  and  perti- 
nent application."  There  is  not  any  man  so  brutal,  and  so 
grovelling  upon  the  earth,  but  his  soul  is  roused  and  carried 
up  to  higher  matters  and  thoughts  upon  the  appearance  of  any 
new  light  from  heaven.  What  can  be  more  worthy  of  admi- 
ration than  the  sun  and  the  stars,  in  their  courses  and  glory? 
and  yet  so  long  as  Nature  goes  on  in  her  ordinary  way,  there 
is  nobody  takes  notice  of  them:  but  when  any  thing  falls  out 
beyond  expectation  and  custom,  what  a  gazing,  pointing,  and 
questioning,  is  there  presently  about  it!    The  people  gather 


EPISTLES  313 

together,  and  are  at  their  wits'  end;  not  so  much  at  the  im- 
portance of  the  matter  as  at  the  novelty.  Every  meteor  sets 
people  agog  to  know  the  meaning  of  it,  and  what  it  portends; 
and  whether  it  be  a  star  or  a  prodigy:  so  that  it  is  worth  the 
while  to  inquire  into  the  nature  and  philosophy  of  these  lights, 
(though  not  the  business  of  this  place)  that  by  discovering  the 
reason,  we  may  overcome  the  apprehension  of  them.  There 
are  many  things  which  we  know  to  be,  and  yet  we  know  no- 
thing at  all  of  what  they  are.  Is  it  not  the  mind  that  moves  us 
and  restrains  us?  but  what  that  ruling  power  is,  we  do  no 
more  understand  than  we  know  where  it  is.  One  will  have  it 
to  be  a  spirit,  another  will  have  it  to  be  a  divine  power; 
some  only  a  subtile  air,  others  an  incorporeal  being;  and 
some  again  will  have  it  to  be  only  blood  and  heat.  Nay,  so 
far  is  the  mind  from  a  perfect  understanding  of  other  things, 
that  it  is  still  in  search  of  itself.  It  is  not  long  since  we 
came  to  find  out  the  causes  of  eclipses:  and  farther  experi- 
ence will  bring  more  things  to  light,  which  are  yet  in  the  dark: 
but  one  is  not  sufficient  for  so  many  discoveries.  It  must  be 
the  work  of  successions  and  posterity;  and  the  time  will 
come  when  we  shall  wonder  that  mankind  should  be  so  long 
ignorant  of  things,  that  lay  so  open,  and  so  easy  to  be  made 
known.  Truth  is  offered  to  all;  but  we  must  yet  content 
ourselves  with  what  is  already  found;  and  leave  some  truths 
to  be  retrieved  by  after  ages.  The  exact  truth  of  things  is 
only  known  to  God;  but  it  is  yet  lawful  for  us  to  inquire, 
and  to  conjecture,  though  not  with  too  much  confidence, 
nor  yet  altogether  without  hope.  In  the  first  place,  however, 
let  us  learn  things  necessary;  and  if  we  have  any  time  to 
spare,  we  may  apply  it  to  superfluities. 

Why  do  we  trouble  ourselves  about  things  which  possibly 
may  happen,  and  peradventure  not?  Let  us  rather  provide 
against  those  dangers  that  watch  us,  and  lie  in  wait  for  us. 
To  suffer  shipwreck,  or  to  be  crushed  with  the  ruin  of  a 
house,  these  are  great  misfortunes,  but  they  seldom  happen. 
The  deadly  and  the  hourly  danger  that  threatens  human  life 
is  from  one  man  to  another.  Other  calamities  do  commonly 
give  us  some  warning:  the  smoke  gives  us  notice  of  a  fire; 
the  clouds  bid  us  provide  for  a  storm;  but  human  malice  has 
no  prognostic;  and  the  nearer  it  is  the  fairer  it  looks.  There 
is  no  trust  to  the  countenance;  we  carry  the  shapes  of  men 
and  the  hearts  of  beasts.     Nay,  we  are  worse  than  beasts; 


314  EPISTLES 

for  a  beast  has  only  no  reason  at  all;  but  the  other  is  per- 
verted, and  turns  his  reason  to  his  mischief.  Beside  that,  all 
the  hurt  which  they  do  is  out  of  fear  or  hunger;  but  man 
takes  delight  in  destroying  his  own  kind.  From  the  danger 
we  are  in  from  men,  we  may  consider  our  duty  to  them;  and 
take  care  that  we  neither  do  nor  suffer  wrong.  It  is  but 
human  to  be  troubled  at  the  misfortunes  of  another,  and  to 
rejoice  at  his  prosperity;  and  it  is  likewise  prudent  to  be- 
think ourselves  what  we  are  to  do,  and  what  we  are  to  avoid; 
by  which  means  we  may  keep  ourselves  from  being  either 
harmed  or  deceived.  The  things  that  most  provoke  one  man 
to  do  hurt  to  another,  are  hope,  envy,  hatred,  fear,  and  con- 
tempt; but  contempt  is  the  slightest;  nay,  many  men  have 
betaken  themselves  to  it  for  their  security.  There  is  no 
doubt  but  he  that  is  contemned  shall  be  trode  upon;  but  then 
his  enemy  passes  over  him  as  not  worth  his  anger. 


EPISTLE  XIII 

Every  man  is  the  artificer  of  his  own  fortune.    Of  justice 
and  injustice 

The  short  of  the  question  betwixt  you  and  me  is  this, 
"Whether  a  man  had  better  part  with  himself,  or  something 
else  that  belongs  to  him?"  And  it  is  easily  resolved,  in  all 
competitions  betwixt  the  goods  of  sense  and  fortune,  and 
those  of  honour  and  conscience.  Those  things  which  all 
men  covet  are  but  specious  outsides;  and  there  is  nothing  in 
them  of  substantial  satisfaction.  Nor  is  there  any  thing  so 
hard  and  terrible  in  the  contrary  as  the  vulgar  imagine;  only 
the  word  calamity  has  an  ill  reputation  in  the  world;  and 
the  very  name  is  more  grievous  than  the  thing  itself.  What 
have  I  to  complain  of,  if  I  can  turn  that  to  happiness  which 
others  count  a  misery?  A  wise  man  either  repels  or  elects,  as 
he  sees  the  matter  before  him,  without  fearing  the  ill  which 
he  rejects,  or  admiring  what  he  chooses.  He  is  never  sur- 
prised; but  in  the  midst  of  plenty  he  prepares  for  poverty, 
as  a  prudent  prince  does  for  war  in  the  depth  of  peace.  Our 
condition  is  good  enough,  if  we  make  the  best  of  it;  and  our 
felicity  is  in  our  own  power.     Things  that  are  adventitious 


EPISTLES  315 

have  no  effect  upon  him  that  studies  to  make  sure  of  his 
happiness  within  himself."  Every  man  should  stand  upon 
his  guard  against  Fortune;  and  take  most  heed  to  himself 
when  she  speaks  him  fairest.  All  the  advantage  she  gets  upon 
us  is  at  unawares;  whereas  he  that  is  provided  for  her,  and 
stands  the  first  shock,  carries  the  day.  It  is  not  with  common 
accidents  of  life  as  with  fire  and  sword,  that  burn  and  cut 
all  alike;  but  misfortunes  work  more  or  less  according  to 
the  weakness  or  resolution  of  the  patient.  He  that  grieves 
for  the  loss  of  casual  comforts  shall  never  want  occasion  of 
sorrow.  We  say  commonly,  "that  every  man  has  his  weak 
side:"  but  give  me  leave  to  tell  you,  that  he  that  masters  one 
vice  may  master  all  the  rest.  He  that  subdues  avarice,  may 
conquer  ambition.  It  is  not  for  philosophy  to  excuse  vices. 
The  patient  has  little  hope  of  health  when  the  physician 
prescribes  intemperance;  though  I  know,  on  the  other  side, 
that  he  that  does  any  thing  above  the  ordinary,  does  but  set 
up  himself  for  a  mark  to  malevolence  and  envy.  Where 
laws  are  neglected,  corruptions  must  inevitably  be  introduced: 
for  the  authority  of  virtue  is  shaken.  And  what  are  laws, 
but  only  precepts  mingled  with  threats?  With  this  diflference, 
that  the  former  deter  us  from  wickedness,  and  the  latter  advise 
us  to  virtue.  A  preamble,  methinks,  derogates  from  the 
honour  of  a  law,  which  ought  to  be  short  and  clear,  and  to 
command  without  suffering  any  expostulation.  It  is  a  flat 
and  an  idle  thing,  a  law  with  a  prologue.  Let  me  only  be 
told  my  duty,  and  I  am  not  to  dispute,  but  to  obey. 

If  I  have  not  acquitted  myself  of  my  last  promise  to  you, 
know,  that  in  all  promises  there  is  a  tacit  reserve;  "If  I  can, 
if  I  ought;"  or,  "if  things  continue  in  the  same  state:"  so 
that  by  the  change  of  circumstances  I  am  discharged  of  my 
obligation.  I  know  very  well  the  bonds  of  justice;  and 
yet  the  practices  of  the  world  to  the  contrary.  There  are  no 
greater  exactors  of  faith  than  the  perfidious,  no  greater  per- 
secutors of  falsehood  than  the  perjurious.  He  that  loves 
his  neighbour's  wife,  and  for  that  very  reason  because  she  is 
another  man's,  locks  up  his  own.  The  wickedness  of  other 
men  we  have  always  in  our  eye,  but  we  cast  our  own  over 
our  shoulders.  A  worse  father  chastises  a  better  son:  he  that 
denies  nothing  to  his  own  luxury  will  pardon  nothing  in 
another  man's.  A  tyrant  is  offended  at  bloodshed;  the  sacri- 
legious  punishes    theft,   and   the    greater  part  of  the  world 


3i6  EPISTLES 

quarrels  rather  with  the  offender  than  with  the  offence.  It 
is  very  rare  that  either  the  joy  or  the  benefit  of  an  estate  in- 
juriously gotten  continues  long.  Men  go  together  by  the 
ears  about  the  booty,  and  we  pay  dear  for  things  of  little 
value.  We  live  and  die  lugging  one  another,  breaking  one 
another's  rest;  and  our  lives  are  without  fruit  and  without 
pleasure.  Justice  is  a  natural  principle.  I  must  live  thus 
with  my  friend,  thus  with  my  fellow-citizen,  thus  with  my 
companion:  and  why?  because  it  is  just;  not  for  design  or 
reward:  for  it  is  virtue  itself,  and  nothing  else,  that  pleases 
us.  There  is  no  law  extant  for  keeping  the  secrets  of  a 
friend,  or  for  not  breaking  faith  with  an  enemy;  and  yet 
there  is  just  cause  of  complaint  if  a  body  betray  a  trust.  If 
a  wicked  man  call  upon  me  for  money  that  I  owe  him,  I 
will  make  no  scruple  of  pouring  it  into  the  lap  of  a  common 
prostitute,  if  she  be  appointed  to  receive  it.  For  my  busi- 
ness is  to  return  the  money,  not  to  order  him  how  he  shall 
dispose  of  it.  I  must  pay  it  upon  demand  to  a  good  man 
when  it  is  expedient,  and  to  a  bad  when  he  calls  for  it. 


EPISTLE  XIV 

Of  trust  in  friendshipy  prayer y  and  bodily  exercise 

There  are  some  people,  that  if  any  thing  go  cross  with 
them,  though  of  a  quality  only  fit  for  the  ear  of  a  friend,  out 
it  goes  at  a  venture  to  the  next  comer:  others  again  are  so 
suspicious,  and  so  obstinately  close,  that  they  will  rather 
perish  than  trust  the  best  friend  they  have  with  it;  they  are 
both  of  them  in  the  wrong;  only  one  is  the  better  natured 
error,  and  the  other  the  safer.  Now,  as  to  the  trust  of  a 
friend;  there  are  many  innocent  things  which,  in  their  own 
nature,  may  seem  to  be  privacies,  and  which  custom  has 
ever  reputed  so;  in  which  cases  there  is  place  enough  for 
the  offices  of  friendship  in  the  mutual  communication  of  our 
most  secret  cares  and  counsels;  but  yet  we  are  so  to  govern 
ourselves,  that  even  an  enemy  should  not  turn  our  actions  to 
reproach.  For  an  honest  man  lives  not  to  the  world,  but  to 
his  own  conscience.  There  is  a  certain  softness  of  nature 
and  spirit  that  steals  upon  a  man;    and,  like  wine  or  love. 


EPISTLES  317 

draws  all  things  from  him.  No  man  will  either  conceal  or 
tell  all  that  he  hears.  But  he  that  tells  the  thing  will  hardly 
conceal  the  author:  so  that  it  passes  from  one  to  another; 
and  that  which  was  as  first  a  secret  does  presently  become  a 
rumour.  For  this,  and  for  many  other  reasons,  we  should 
set  a  watch  upon  our  lips;  and  attend  the  more  useful  and 
necessary  work  of  contemplation.  The  first  petition  that  we 
are  to  make  to  God  Almighty  is  for  a  good  conscience;  the  se- 
cond for  health  of  mind;  and  then,  of  body.  There  are  some 
things  which  we  directly  wish  for,  as  joy,  peace,  and  the 
like:  some  that  we  pray  for  only  in  case  of  necessity,  as 
patience  in  pain  or  sickness,  &c.;  others  that  concern  our  ex- 
ternal behaviour,  as  modesty  of  countenance,  decency  of 
motion,  and  such  a  demeanour  as  may  become  a  prudent 
man.  Many  things  may  be  commodious,  that  is  to  say,  they 
may  be  of  more  use  than  trouble,  and  yet  not  simply  good. 
Some  things  we  have  for  exercise,  others  for  instruction  and 
delight.  These  things  belong  to  us  only  as  we  are  men,  but 
not  as  we  are  good  men.  Some  things  serve  to  correct  and 
regulate  our  manners;  others  to  inquire  into  the  nature  and 
original  of  them.  How  shall  we  know  what  a  man  is  to  do, 
if  we  do  not  search  into  his  nature,  and  find  out  what  is  best 
for  him,  and  what  he  is  to  avoid,  and  what  to  pursue? 
Humanity  not  only  keeps  us  from  being  proud  and  covetous, 
but  it  makes  us  affable  and  gentle  in  our  words,  actions,  and 
affections.  We  have  no  precepts  from  the  liberal  arts,  neither 
for  this,  nor  for  sincerity,  integrity  of  manners,  modesty, 
frugality,  no,  nor  for  clemency  itself,  which  makes  us  as  ten- 
der of  another's  blood  as  of  our  own;  and  distinguishes  men 
in  society  from  beasts  of  prey.  Some  people  are  ever  com- 
plaining of  the  iniquity  of  the  times:  but  let  no  man  depend 
upon  the  goodness  of  his  cause,  but  rather  upon  the  firmness 
of  his  courage.  There  may  be  force  or  bribery;  I  would 
hope  the  best,  but  prepare  for  the  worst.  What  if  I  have 
served  an  ungrateful  interest,  and  suffered  wrongfully.?  An 
honest  man  is  more  troubled  for  the  injustice  of  a  severe 
sentence  than  for  the  cruelty  of  it:  and  that  his  country  has 
done  an  ill  thing  rather  than  that  he  himself  suffers  it.  If  he 
be  banished,  the  shame  is  not  his,  but  the  author's  of  it.  He 
tempers  his  delights  and  his  afflictions,  and  says  to  himself, 
that  if  our  joys  cannot  be  long,  neither  will  our  sorrows. 
He  is  patient  in  his  own  misfortunes,  without  envy  at    the 


3i8  EPISTLES 

advantages  of  his  neighbour.  His  virtue  is  bolder  in  the  op- 
position of  ill  things  than  tyranny  itself  can  be  in  the  impo- 
sing of  them.  This  is  rather  to  tell  you  what  you  do  already 
than  what  you  should  do.  Go  on  as  you  have  begun,  and 
make  haste  to  be  perfect;  but  take  notice,  that  the  mind  is 
to  be  now  and  then  unbent;  a  glass  of  wine,  a  journey,  a 
mouthful  of  fresh  air,  relieves  it:  but  then  there  is  a  differ- 
ence betwixt  a  remission  and  a  dissolution.  Without  exer- 
cise, a  dull  humour  invades  us;  and  it  is  remarkable,  that 
men  of  brawny  arms  and  broad  shoulders  have  commonly 
weak  souls.  Some  exercises  are  short  and  gentle,  and  set 
the  body  right  presently.  But  whatever  we  do,  let  us  return 
quickly  to  the  mind;  for  that  must  not  lie  idle.  A  little 
labour  serves  it;  and  it  works  in  all  seasons:  in  summer, 
winter,  old  age;  nothing  hinders  it.  And  to  make  it  more 
valuable,  it  is  every  day  better  than  another.  Not  that  I 
would  have  you  perpetually  pouring  upon  a  book  neither,  but 
allow  yourself  seasonable  respites,  and  to  it  again.  A  coach 
or  a  walk,  does  your  body  good  without  interrupting  your 
study:  for  you  may  discourse,  dictate,  read,  hear,  at  the 
same  time.  Now,  though  the  exercises  be  laudable  and 
healthful,  yet  the  masters  of  them  are  for  the  most  part  of 
lewd  example:  they  divide  their  lives  betwixt  the  tavern  and 
the  hot-house;  and  a  swimming  debauch  is  a  good  day's 
work  with  them.  But  how  apt  are  we  to  set  bounds  to 
others,  and  none  to  ourselves;  and  to  observe  their  warts, 
when  our  own  bodies  are  covered  with  ulcers?  What  is 
more  ordinary  than  for  people  to  reverence  and  detest  the 
fortunate  at  the  same  time,  even  for  doing  those  things  which 
they  themselves  would  do  if  they  could?  There  might  be 
some  hope  of  our  amendment,  if  we  would  but  confess  our 
faults;  as  a  man  must  be  awake  that  tells  his  dream.  There 
are  some  diseases  which  are  absolutely  hopeless  and  past 
cure;  but  they  may  yet  be  palliated;  and  philosophy,  if  it 
cannot  help  in  one  case,  it  may  in  another.  To  a  man  in  a 
fever,  a  gentle  remission  is  a  degree  of  health;  and  it  is 
something,  if  a  man  be  not  perfectly  sound,  to  be  yet  more 
curable.  But  we  are  loth  to  be  at  the  pains  of  attending  our 
own  business:  we  lead  the  life  in  the  world,  that  some  lazy 
people  do  in  the  market,  they  stand  gaping  about  them,  with- 
out either  buying  or  selling.  We  slip  our  opportunities;  and 
if  they  be  not  catched  in  the  very  nick,  they  are  irrecoverably 
lost. 


EPISTLES  319 

EPISTLE  XV 

The  danger  of  flattery :  and  in  what  cases  a  man  may 
be  allowed  to  commend  himself 

Demetrius  was  wont  to  say,  "That  knavery  was  the  ready 
way  to  riches;"  and  that  the  casting  off  of  virtue  was  the 
first  step  to  thriving  in  the  world.  Study  but  the  art  oi  flat- 
tery, (which  is  now-a-days  so  acceptable,  that  a  moderate 
commendation  passes  for  a  libel,)  study  that  art,  (I  say,)  and 
you  shall  do  your  business  without  any  risk  upon  the  seas,  or 
any  hazards  of  merchandising,  husbandry,  or  suits  at  law. 
There  is  not  one  man  of  a  million  that  is  proof  against  an 
artificial  flattery;  but  something  or  other  will  stick,  if  we  do 
but  give  him  the  hearing.  Nay,  we  like  him  well  enough, 
though,  we  shake  him  off,  and  the  quarrel  is  easily  reconciled. 
We  seem  to  oppose  him,  but  we  do  not  shut  the  door  against 
him;  or  if  we  do,  it  is  but  what  a  mistress  will  do  sometimes 
upon  her  servant,  "She  would  be  well  enough  content  to  be 
hindered;  and  take  it  much  better  yet  to  have  it  broke 
open."  Beside  that,  a  man  lies  commonly  most  open  where 
he  is  attacked.  How  shamefully  are  great  men  fawned  upon 
by  their  slaves,  and  inured  to  fulsome  praises?  when  the 
only  business  of  those  that  call  themselves  friends  is  to  try 
who  can  most  dexterously  deceive  his  master.  For  want  of 
knowing  their  own  strength,  they  believe  themselves  as  great 
as  their  parasites  represent  them:  and  venture  upon  broils 
and  wars  to  their  irreparable  destruction.  They  break  alli- 
ances, and  transport  themselves  into  passions,  which,  for 
want  of  better  counsels,  hurry  them  on  to  blood  and  confu- 
sion. They  pursue  every  wild  imagination  as  a  certainty,  and 
think  it  greater  disgrace  to  be  bent,  than  to  be  broken. 
They  set  up  their  rest  upon  the  perpetuity  of  a  tottering 
fortune,  until  they  come  at  last  to  see  the  ruin  of  themselves 
upon  their  possessions;  and,  too  late  to  understand  that  their 
misfortunes  and  their  flatteries  were  of  the  same  date.  There 
is  a  sparing  and  a  crafty  flattery,  that  looks  like  plain  dealing; 
but  all  flatteries  are  words  of  course,  and  he  that  receives 
them  will  give  them.  Nay,  let  it  be  never  so  shameless,  a 
man  takes  all  to  himself,  though  his  very  conscience  gives 
him  the  lie.     Cruelty  shall  be  translated  mercy;  extortion  and 


320  EPISTLES 

oppression  shall  be  called  liberality;  lust  and  gluttony,  to  the 
highest  degree  in  the  world,  shall  be  magnified  for  temperance. 
Now,  what  hope  is  there  of  his  changing  for  the  better  that 
values  himself  for  the  best  of  men  already?  The  stroke  of 
an  arrow  convinced  Alexander  that  he  was  not  the  son  of 
Jupiter,  but  a  mortal  man.  And  thus,  upon  the  experiment 
of  human  frailty,  should  every  man  say  to  himself.  Am  not 
I  sad  sometimes,  and  tortured  betwixt  hope  and  fear?  Do  I 
not  hanker  after  vain  pleasures?  He  that  is  not  yet  satisfied  is 
not  so  good  as  he  should  be.  The  words  of  flatterers  and 
parasites  seldom  die  in  the  hearing;  and  when  they  have 
gained  admittance  they  grow  more  and  more  upon  you;  and 
shortly  they  will  tell  you  that  virtue,  philosophy,  and  justice, 
are  but  empty  sounds;  let  every  man  live  while  he  may,  and 
make  the  best  of  the  present;  and  not  govern  himself  at  a 
rate  as  if  he  were  to  keep  a  diary  for  his  father.  What  mad- 
ness is  it  to  enrich  a  man's  heir  and  starve  himself;  and  to 
turn  a  friend  into  an  enemy?  for  his  joy  will  be  proportioned 
to  what  you  leave  him.  Never  trouble  yourself  for  these 
superfluous  censors  of  other  men's  lives  and  enemies  of  their 
own;  these  pedagogues  of  mankind  are  not  worth  your  care. 
These  are  the  people  that  draw  us  from  our  parents  and 
country,  our  friends,  and  other  necessary  duties. 

I  would  neither  be  deceived  myself  nor  deceive  others; 
but  if  a  man  cannot  live  without  it,  let  him  commend  him- 
self, and  say  thus:  "I  have  applied  myself  to  liberal  studies, 
though  both  the  poverty  of  my  condition  and  my  own  reason 
might  rather  have  put  me  upon  the  making  of  my  fortune. 
I  have  given  proof  that  all  minds  are  capable  of  goodness; 
and  have  illustrated  the  obscurity  of  my  family,  by  the 
eminency  of  my  virtue.  I  have  preserved  my  faith  in  all 
extremities,  and  I  have  ventured  my  life  for  it.  I  have  never 
spoken  one  word  contrary  to  my  conscience,  and  I  have  been 
more  solicitous  for  my  friend  than  for  myself:  I  never  made 
any  base  submission  to  any  man;  and  I  have  never  done  any 
thing  unworthy  of  a  resolute  and  of  an  honest  man.  My 
mind  is  raised  so  much  above  all  dangers,  that  I  have  master- 
ed all  hazards;  and  I  bless  myself  in  the  providence  which 
gave  me  that  experiment  of  my  virtue:  for  it  was  not  fit, 
methought,  that  so  great  glory  should  come  cheap.  Nay,  I 
did  not  so  much  as  deliberate  whether  good  faith  should  suffer 
for  me  or  I  for  it.     I  stood  my  ground,  without  laying  violent 


EPISTLES  321 

hands  upon  himself,  to  escape  the  rage  of  the  powerful; 
though  under  Caligula,  I  saw  cruelties  to  such  a  degree,  that 
to  be  killed  outright  was  accounted  a  mercy.  And  yet  I  per- 
sisted in  my  honesty,  to  show  that  I  was  ready  to  do  more 
than  die  for  it.  My  mind  was  never  corrupted  with  gifts; 
and  when  the  humour  of  avarice  was  at  the  height,  I  never 
laid  my  hand  upon  any  unlawful  gain.  I  have  been  temper- 
ate in  my  diet;  modest  in  my  discourse;  courteous  and 
affable  to  my  inferiors;  and  have  ever  paid  a  respect  and 
reverence  to  my  betters."  After  all,  what  I  have  said  is 
either  true  or  false:  If  true,  I  have  commended  myself  be- 
fore a  great  witness,  my  own  conscience;  if  false,  I  am  ridi- 
culous without  any  witness  at  all.  Let  every  man  retire  into 
himself;  for  the  old,  the  young,  men,  women,  and  children, 
they  are  all  wicked.  Not  every  one  only,  or  a  few,  but  there 
is  a  general  conspiracy  in  evil.  We  should  therefore  fly  the 
world,  withdraw  into  ourselves,  and  in  some  sort  avoid  even 
ourselves  too. 


EPISTLE  XVI 

A  general  dissolution  of  manners ;  with  a  censure  of 
corrupt  magistrates 

The  corruption  of  the  present  times  is  the  general  com- 
plaint of  all  times;  it  ever  has  been  so,  and  it  ever  will  be  so: 
not  considering  that  the  wickedness  of  the  world  is  always 
the  same  as  to  the  degree  of  it,  though  it  may  change  places, 
perhaps,  and  vary  a  little  in  the  matter.  One  while  whoring 
is  in  fashion,  another  while  gluttony;  to-day  excess  in  apparel; 
and  more  care  of  the  body  than  of  the  mind;  to-morrow 
comes  up  the  humour  of  scoffing;  and  after  that,  perchance, 
a  vein  of  drinking;  when  he  shall  be  accounted  the  bravest 
man  that  makes  himself  the  veriest  beast.  This  prostitute 
looseness  of  manners  makes  way  for  sedition  and  cruelty. 
Under  Tiberius,  the  plague  of  your  dilators  or  informers,  was 
worse  than  any  civil  war.  It  was  an  age  wherin  the  words 
of  men  in  their  cups,  the  most  innocent  railleries,  and  ingen- 
uous freedoms  of  conversation,  were  made  capital:  when 
it  was  dangerous  to  be  honest,  and  only  profitable  to  be  vicious; 


322  EPISTLES 

and  not  only  ill  things,  but  vice  itself,  was  both  commended 
and  preferred;  for  all  insolences,  when  they  come  to  be  ex- 
emplary, they  pretend  to  be  lawful.  Authority  in  sin  is  an 
incentive  to  it;  and  it  is  at  least  an  excuse,  if  not  a  warrant, 
to  transgress  after  great  example.  Beside  that,  we  are  prone 
enough  to  do  amiss  even  of  ourselves,  without  either  a  leader 
or  a  companion.  But  it  is  a  malevolent  sort  of  comfort,  that 
which  men  take  in  the  number  of  the  wicked. 

The  worst  of  all  is,  that  whereas  in  other  cases,  the  people 
are  ashamed  of  their  errors,  in  that  of  life  they  are  delighted 
with  them,  and  so  become  incurable.  The  pilot  takes  no  plea- 
sure in  running  upon  a  rock;  nor  the  physician  in  the  death 
of  his  patient;  nor  the  advocate  in  the  loss  of  his  client's 
cause:  but,  on  the  other  side,  the  criminal  rejoices  in  his  un- 
cleanness,  in  his  ambition,  and  in  his  theft;  and  never  troubles 
himself  for  the  fault,  but  for  the  miscarriage.  He  makes  in- 
famy the  reward  of  lewdness,  and  values  himself  upon  his 
excellency  in  ill-doing.  The  question  is,  who  shall  be  most 
impious;  we  have  every  day  worse  appetites  and  less  shame. 
Sobriety  and  conscience  are  become  foolish  and  scandalous 
things;  and  it  is  half  the  relish  of  our  lusts  that  they  are  com- 
mitted in  the  face  of  the  sun.  Innocency  is  not  only  rare, 
but  lost;  and  mankind  is  entered  into  a  sort  of  confederacy 
against  virtue:  to  say  nothing  of  intestine  wars,  fathers  and 
sons  in  league  against  one  another,  poisoned  fountains,  troops 
in  search  of  the  banished  and  proscribed,  prisons  crammed 
with  worthy  men,  cities  demolished,  rape  and  adultery  au- 
thorised, public  perjuries  and  frauds,  a  violation  of  common 
faith,  and  all  the  bonds  of  human  society,  cancelled.  Adul- 
tery is  the  ready  way  to  wedlock,  and  marriage  to  a  single  life 
again;  for  parting  is  one  condition  of  it:  for  they  divorce  to 
marry,  and  they  marry  to  be  divorced.  That  which  they  often 
talk  and  hear  of  they  easily  do.  What  shame  can  there  be  of 
incontinence,  when  modesty  is  become  a  reproach;  and 
when  it  is  the  mode  of  every  wife  to  provide  herself  a  gal- 
lant or  two  beside  her  husband?  It  is  an  idle  thing  to  think  of 
ever  converting  those  people  that  find  both  advantage  and  re- 
putation in  their  wickedness. 

Would  any  man  ever  have  imagined  that  Clodius  should 
have  come  off  by  bribery  for  debauching  the  wife  of  Caesar, 
and  profaning  the  public  vows  for  the  safety  of  the  people? 
But  the  judges  were  corrupted;    and  not  only  with  money, 


EPISTLES  323 

but  with  the  bodies  of  young  men  and  women:  so  that  his 
absolution  was  fouler  than  his  crime;  the  bribe  was  adultery 
as  well  as  the  offence;  and  he  had  no  way  to  be  safe  till  he 
had  made  his  judges  like  himself.  "Name  the  woman  you 
have  a  mind  to,"  says  he,  "and  you  shall  have  her:  and  when 
you  have  committed  the  sin,  condemn  it  if  you  dare.  Ap- 
point the  time  and  the  place,  and  she  shall  be  ready  for  you." 
Nay,  the  practice  was  so  gross  that  the  bench  desired  a  guard 
of  the  senate  to  secure  them  from  the  people.  Before  the 
sentence  was  given  he  was  an  adulterer,  in  the  manage  of 
the  cause  he  was  a  pander,  and  his  way  of  escaping  punish- 
ment was  fouler  than  the  offence  that  deserved  it.  A  lust 
that  spared  not  the  altar,  and  perverted  justice  upon  the  very 
seat  of  judgment.  The  question  was,  "Whether  an  adulterer 
should  escape  unpunished?"  and  the  resolution  was,  That 
"without  being  an  adulterer  he  could  not  be  secure."  Nor  is  it 
likely  that  their  conversation  was  one  jot  honester  than  their 
sentence;  these  things  have  been  done,  and  will  be  done. 
Discipline  and  fear  may  restrain  the  licence  of  the  people; 
but  it  is  not  to  be  thought  that  they  will  ever  be  good  of  their 
own  accord.  But  let  us  not  yet  speak  of  luxury  and  dissolu- 
tion as  the  vices  of  the  age,  which  in  truth  are  only  the  vices 
of  the  men.  The  practices  of  our  times  are  moderate  com- 
pared with  those,  when  the  delinquent  pleaded  not  guilty  to 
the  bench,  and  the  bench  confessed  itself  guilty  to  the  delin- 
quent; and  when  one  adultery  was  excused  by  another. 
In  those  days  it  passed  for  great  piety  not  to  be  very  impious. 
He  that  gave  most  carried  the  cause;  and  it  is  but  according  to 
the  laws  of  nations  for  him  that  buys  to  sell.  And  it  is  to  be 
noted,  that  a  man  may  be  as  covetous  of  getting  what  he  in- 
tends to  squander  away  as  if  he  were  to  hoard  it  up.  The 
contempt  of  poverty  in  others,  and  the  fear  of  it  In  ourselves, 
unmerciful  oppressions,  and  mercenary  magistrates,  are  the 
common  grievances  of  a  licentious  government.  The  baths 
and  the  theatres  are  crowded,  when  the  temples  and  the  schools 
are  empty;  for  men  mind  their  pleasures  more  than  their 
manners.  All  vices  gain  upon  us  by  the  promise  of  reward; 
avarice  promises  money,  luxury  sensual  satisfaction,  ambition 
promises  preferment  and  power.  And  it  Is  no  excuse  to  say 
that  a  man  Is  not  very  covetous;  a  little  ambitious,  choleric, 
inconstant,  lustful,  and  the  like.  He  had  better  have  one 
great  vice  than  a  spice  of  all  little  ones.     We  say  commonly. 


324  EPISTLES 

that  a  fool  has  all  sorts  of  vices  in  him;  that  is  to  say,  he  is 
free  from  none;  but  they  do  not  all  appear;  and  he  is  more 
prone  to  one  than  to  another.  One  is  given  to  avarice, 
another  to  luxury,  a  third  to  wantonness;  but  we  are  not  yet 
to  ask  the  Stoics  if  Achilles  be  a  coward,  Aristides  unjust, 
Fabius  rash,  Mucins  a  traitor,  Camillus  a  deserter.  We 
do  not  say,  that  all  vices  are  in  all  men,  as  some  are  in  some 
particulars. 


EPISTLE  XVII 

The  original  of  all  men  is  the  same;  and  virtue  is  the 
only  nobility.     There  is  a  tenderness  due  to  servants 

It  is  not  well  done  to  be  still  murmuring  against  Nature 
and  Fortune,  as  if  it  were  their  unkindness  that  makes  you 
inconsiderable,  when  it  is  only  by  your  own  weakness  that 
you  make  yourself  so:  for  it  is  virtue,  not  pedigree,  that 
renders  a  man  either  valuable  or  happy.  Philosophy  does 
not  either  reject  or  choose  any  man  for  his  quality.  Socrates 
was  no  patrician,  Cleanthes  but  an  under-gardener;  neither 
did  Plato  dignify  philosophy  by  his  birth,  but  by  his  good- 
ness. All  these  worthy  men  are  our  progenitors,  if  we  will 
but  do  ourselves  the  honour  to  become  their  disciples.  The 
original  of  all  mankind  was  the  same:  and  it  is  only  a  clear 
conscience  that  makes  any  man  noble:  for  that  derives  even 
from  Heaven  itself.  It  is  the  saying  of  a  great  man,  that  if 
we  could  trace  our  descents,  we  should  find  all  slaves  to 
come  from  princes,  and  all  princes  from  slaves.  But  Fortune 
has  turned  all  things  topsy-turvy  in  a  long  story  of  revolu- 
tions. It  is  most  certain  that  our  beginning  had  nothing  be- 
fore it:  and  our  ancestors  were  some  of  them  splendid, 
others  sordid,  as  it  happened.  We  have  lost  the  memorials 
of  our  extraction;  and,  in  truth,  it  matters  not  whence  we 
came,  but  whither  we  go.  Nor  is  it  any  more  to  our  honour, 
the  glory  of  our  predecessors,  than  it  is  to  their  shame,  the 
wickedness  of  their  posterity.  We  are  all  of  us  composed  of 
the  same  elements;  why  should  we  then  value  ourselves 
upon  our  nobility  of  blood,  as  if  we  were  not  all  of  us  equal, 
if  we   could   but   recover  our  evidence?     But  when  we   can 


EPISTLES  325 

carry  it  no  farther,  the  herald  provides  us  some  hero  to  sup- 
ply the  place  of  an  illustrious  original;  and  there  is  the  rise 
of  arms  and  families.  For  a  man  to  spend  his  life  in  pursuit 
of  a  title,  that  serves  only  when  he  dies  to  furnish  out  an  epi- 
taph, is  below  a  wise  man's  business. 

It  pleases  me  exceedingly  to  understand,  by  all  that  come 
out  of  your  quarters,  that  you  demean  yourself  humanely 
and  tenderly  towards  your  servants.  It  is  the  part  of  a  wise 
and  a  good  man,  to  deal  with  his  inferior  as  he  would  have 
his  superior  deal  with  him;  for  servants  are  not  only  men, 
but  a  kind  of  humble  friends;  and  Fortune  has  no  more 
power  over  them,  than  over  their  masters:  and  he  that  duly 
considers,  how  many  servants  have  come  to  be  masters,  and 
how  many  masters  to  be  servants,  will  lay  no  great  stress  of 
argument  either  upon  the  one  or  upon  the  other.  Some  use 
their  servants  worse  than  beasts,  in  slavish  attendances  be- 
twixt their  drink  and  their  lusts:  some  are  brought  up  only 
to  carve,  others  to  season;  and  all  to  serve  the  turns  of  pomp 
and  luxury.  Is  it  not  a  barbarous  custom  to  make  it  almost 
capital  for  a  servant  only  to  cough,  sneeze,  sigh,  or  but  wag 
his  lips  while  he  is  in  waiting:  and  to  keep  him  the  whole 
night  mute  and  fasting?  Yet  so  it  comes  to  pass,  that  they 
that  dare  not  speak  before  their  masters,  will  not  forbear 
talking  of  them;  and  those,  on  the  other  side,  that  were  al- 
lowed a  modest  freedom  of  speech  in  their  master's  enter- 
tainments, were  most  obstinately  silent  upon  the  torture, 
rather  than  they  would  betray  them.  But  we  live  as  if  a 
servant  were  not  made  of  the  same  materials  with  his  master, 
or  to  breathe  the  same  air,  or  to  live  and  die  under  the  same 
conditions.  It  is  worthy  of  observation,  that  the  most  impe- 
rious masters  over  their  own  servants,  are  at  the  same  time 
the  most  abject  slaves  to  the  servants  of  other  masters.  I 
will  not  distinguish  a  servant  by  his  ojEfice,  but  by  his  man- 
ners. The  one  is  the  work  of  Fortune,  the  other  of  Virtue. 
But  we  look  only  to  his  quality,  and  not  to  his  merit.  Why 
should  not  a  brave  action  rather  dignify  the  condition  of  a 
servant,  than  the  condition  of  a  servant  lessen  a  brave  ac- 
tion? I  would  not  value  a  man  for  his  clothes  or  degree,  any 
more  than  I  would  do  a  horse  for  his  trappings.  What  if  he 
be  a  servant?  Show  me  any  man  that  is  not  so,  to  his  lusts, 
his  avarice,  his  ambition,  his  palate,  to  his  queen;  nay,  to 
other  men's  servants;    and  we  are  all  of  us  servants  to  fear. 


326  EPISTLES 

Insolent  we  are  many  of  us  at  home;  servile  and  despised 
abroad;  and  none  are  more  liable  to  be  trampled  upon  than 
those  that  have  gotten  a  habit  of  giving  affronts  by  suffering 
them.  What  matters  it  how  many  masters  we  have  when 
it  is  but  one  slavery?  and  whosoever  contemns  that  is  per- 
fectly free,  let  his  masters  be  never  so  many.  That  man  is 
only  free,  not  whom  Fortune  has  a  little  power  over,  but 
over  whom  she  has  none  at  all:  which  state  of  liberty  is  an 
inestimable  good,  when  we  desire  nothing  that  is  either  super- 
fluous or  vicious.  They  are  asses  that  are  made  for  burden,  and 
not  the  nobler  sort  of  horses.  In  the  civil  wars  betwixt 
Caesar  and  Pompey,  the  question  was  not,  who  should  be 
slaves  or  free,  but  who  should  be  master.  Ambition  is  the 
same  thing  in  private  that  it  is  in  public;  and  the  duties  are 
effectually  the  same  betwixt  the  master  of  a  kingdom  and 
the  master  of  a  family.  As  I  would  treat  some  servants 
kindly  because  they  are  worthy,  and  others  to  make  them  so; 
so,  on  the  other  side,  I  would  have  a  servant  to  reverence  his 
master;  and  rather  to  love  him  than  fear  him.  Some  there 
are  that  think  this  too  little  for  a  master,  though  it  is  all  that 
we  pay  even  to  God  himself.  The  body  of  a  servant  may 
be  bought  and  sold,  but  his  mind  is  free. 


EPISTLE  XVIII 

We  are  more  just  to  men  than  to  God.     Of  life  and 
death;  of  good  and  evil 

It  is  without  dispute,  that  the  loss  of  a  friend  is  one  of  the 
greatest  trials  of  human  frailty;  and  no  man  is  so  much  ex- 
alted above  the  sense  of  that  calamity  as  not  to  be  affected 
with  it.  And  yet  if  a  man  bear  it  bravely,  they  cry,  "He 
has  no  sense  of  piety  or  good  nature  in  him;"  if  he  sink 
under  it,  they  call  him  effeminate:  so  that  he  lies  both  ways 
under  a  reproach.  And  what  is  the  ground  of  the  trouble, 
I  beseech  you,  but  that  he  might  have  lived  longer  in  respect 
of  his  years;  and  in  effect  that  he  ought  to  have  done  so  in 
regard  of  his  usefulness  to  the  world.?"  I  cannot  but  wonder 
to  see  men  that  are  really  just  and  temperate  in  all  their  deal- 
ings with  men,  and  in  business,  so  exceedingly  to  forget  them- 


EPISTLES  327 

selves  in  this  point.  But  we  have,  in  excuse  of  this  error, 
the  failings  of  the  whole  world  with  us  for  company.  For 
even  those  that  are  the  most  scrupulously  conscientious  to- 
ward men,  are  yet  unthankful  and  injurious  to  Providence. 

It  is  not  the  number  of  days  that  makes  a  life  long,  but  the 
full  employment  of  them  upon  the  main  end  and  purpose  of 
life;  which  is  the  perfecting  of  the  mind,  in  making  a  man 
the  absolute  master  of  himself.  I  reckon  the  matter  of  age 
among  external  things,  the  main  point  is,  to  live  and  die  with 
honour.  Every  man  that  lives  is  upon  the  way,  and  must  go 
through  with  his  journey,  without  stopping  till  he  comes  at 
the  end:  and  wheresoever  it  ends,  if  it  end  well,  it  is  a  per- 
fect life.  There  is  an  invincible  fate  that  attends  all  mortals; 
and  one  generation  is  condemned  to  tread  upon  the  heels  of 
another.  Take  away  from  life  the  power  of  death,  and  it  is 
a  slavery.  As  Caligula  was  passing  upon  the  way,  an  old 
man  that  was  a  prisoner,  and  with  a  beard  down  to  his  girdle, 
made  it  his  request  to  Caesar  that  he  might  be  put  to  death. 
"Why,"  says  Caesar  to  him,  "are  you  not  dead  already.'"' 
So  that  you  see  some  desire  it  as  well  as  others  fear  it;  and 
why  not.?  when  it  is  one  of  the  duties  of  life  to  die,  and  it 
is  one  of  the  comforts  of  it  too;  for  the  living  are  under  the 
power  of  Fortune,  but  she  has  no  dominion  at  all  over  the 
dead.  How  can  life  be  pleasant  to  any  man  that  is  not  pre- 
pared to  part  with  it?  or  what  loss  can  be  easier  to  us  than 
that  which  can  never  be  missed  or  desired  again?  I  was 
brought  by  a  defluction  into  a  hopeless  consumption,  and  I 
had  it  many  times  in  my  thought  to  deliver  myself  from  a 
miserable  life  by  a  violent  death;  but  the  tenderness  I  had 
for  an  aged  and  indulgent  father  held  my  hands;  for,  thought 
I  to  myself,  it  will  be  very  hard  for  my  father  to  be  without 
me,  though  I  could  most  willingly  part  with  myself.  In  the 
case  of  a  particular  disease,  a  physician  may  propound  a 
remedy;  but  the  only  remedy,  for  all  diseases,  is  the  con- 
tempt of  death.  (Though  I  know  too,  that  it  is  the  business 
of  a  long  life  to  learn  that  lesson.) 

Oh!  the  happiness  of  distinguishing  good  from  evil  in  the 
works  of  Providence!  But  instead  of  raising  our  thoughts  to 
the  contemplation  of  divine  matters,  and  inquiring  into  the 
original,  the  state  and  appointed  issue  of  created  nature,  we 
are  digging  of  the  earth,  and  serving  of  our  avarice;  neglect- 
ing all  the  good  things  that  are  so  frankly  offered  us.     How 


328  EPISTLES 

great  a  folly  and  madness  is  it  for  men  that  are  dying,  and  in 
the  hands  of  death  already,  to  extend  their  hopes,  and  to 
carry  their  ambition  and  desires  to  the  grave  unsatisfied?  For 
whosoever  is  tainted  with  those  hydropic  appetites  can  never 
have  enough  either  of  money  or  power.  It  is  a  remarkable 
thing,  that  among  those  that  place  their  happiness  in  sense, 
they  are  the  most  miserable  that  seem  to  be  happiest.  The 
riches  of  Nature  are  the  most  precious  treasures.  What  has 
any  man  to  desire  more  than  to  keep  himself  from  cold,  hun- 
ger, and  thirst?  It  is  not  the  quantity,  but  the  opinion,  that 
governs  in  this  case,  "That  can  never  be  little  which  is 
enough;  nor  does  any  man  account  that  to  be  much  which 
is  too  little."  The  benefits  of  Fortune  are  so  far  comfortable 
to  us  as  we  enjoy  them  without  losing  the  possession  of  our- 
selves. Let  us  purge  our  minds,  and  follow  Nature;  we  shall 
otherwise  be  still  either  fearing  or  craving,  and  slaves  to  ac- 
cidents. Not  that  there  is  any  pleasure  in  poverty;  but  it  is 
a  great  felicity  for  a  man  to  bring  his  mind  to  be  contented 
even  in  that  state  which  fortune  itself  cannot  make  worse. 
Methinks  our  quarrels  with  ambition  and  profitable  employ- 
ments are  somewhat  like  those  we  have  with  our  mistresses; 
we  do  not  hate  them,  but  wrangle  with  them.  In  a  word, 
betwixt  those  things  which  are  sought  and  coveted,  and  yet 
complained  of,  and  those  things  which  we  have  lost,  and 
pretend  that  we  cannot  live  without,  our  misfortunes  are 
purely  voluntary;  and  we  are  servants,  not  so  much  by  ne- 
cessity as  by  choice.  No  man  can  be  happy  that  is  not  free 
and  fearless;  and  no  man  can  be  so  but  he  that  by  philosophy 
has  got  the  better  of  Fortune.  In  what  place  soever  we  are, 
we  shall  find  ourselves  beset  with  the  miseries  of  human  na- 
ture; some  without  us,  that  either  encompass  us,  deceive  us, 
or  force  us;  others  within  us,  that  eat  up  our  very  hearts  in 
the  middle  of  solitude.  And  it  is  not  yet,  as  we  imagine, 
that  Fortune  has  long  arms;  she  meddles  with  nobody  that 
does  not  first  lay  hold  upon  her.  We  should  keep  a  distance, 
therefore,  and  withdraw  into  the  knowledge  of  Nature  and 
of  ourselves.  We  understand  the  original  of  things,  the 
order  of  the  world,  the  circulation  of  the  seasons,  the  courses 
of  the  stars,  and  that  the  whole  frame  of  the  universe  (only 
the  earth  excepted)  is  but  a  perpetual  motion.  We  know  the 
causes  of  day  and  night,  of  light  and  of  darkness,  but  it  is  at  a 
distance:    let  us  direct  our  thoughts  then  to  that  place,  where 


EPISTLES  329 

we  shall  see  all  nearer  hand.  And  it  is  not  this  hope  neither 
that  makes  a  wise  man  resolute  at  the  point  of  death,  be- 
cause death  lies  in  his  way  to  heaven;  for  the  soul  of  a  wise 
man  is  there  beforehand:  nay,  if  there  were  nothing  after 
death  to  be  either  expected  or  feared,  he  would  yet  leave  this 
world  with  as  great  a  mind,  though  he  were  to  pass  into  a 
state  of  annihilation.  He  that  reckons  every  hour  his  last,  a 
day  or  an  age  is  all  one  to  him.  Fate  is  doing  our  work 
while  we  sleep;  death  steals  upon  us  insensibly,  and  the 
more  insensibly,  because  it  passes  under  the  name  of  life. 
From  childhood  we  grow  up  without  perceiving  it  to  old  age; 
and  this  increase  of  our  life,  duly  considered,  is  a  diminution 
of  it.  We  take  death  to  be  before  us,  but  it  is  behind  us; 
and  has  already  swallowed  up  all  that  is  past;  wherefore 
make  use  of  the  present,  and  trust  nothing  to  the  morrow, 
for  delay  is  just  so  much  time  lost.  We  catch  hold  of  hopes 
and  flatteries  of  a  little  longer  life,  as  drowning  men  do  upon 
thorns  or  straws,  that  either  hurt  us  or  deceive  us.  You  will 
ask,  perhaps,  what  I  do  myself,  that  preach  at  this  rate. 
Truly  I  do  like  some  ill  husbands,  that  spend  their  estates  and 
yet  keep  their  accounts;  I  run  out,  but  yet  I  can  tell  which 
way  it  goes.  And  I  have  the  fate  of  ill  husbands  too  another 
way;  for  every  body  pities  me,  and  nobody  helps  me.  The 
soul  is  never  in  the  right  place  so  long  as  it  fears  to  quit  the 
body.  Why  should  a  man  trouble  himself  to  extend  life, 
which  at  best  is  a  kind  of  punishment;  and  at  longest  amounts 
to  very  little  more  than  nothing?  He  is  ungrateful  that  takes 
the  period  of  pleasure  for  an  injury;  and  he  is  foolish  that 
knows  no  good  but  the  present.  Nay,  there  are  some  courses 
of  life  which  a  man  ought  to  quit,  though  with  life  itself,  as 
the  trade  of  killing  others  instead  of  learning  to  die  himself. 
Life  itself  is  neither  good  nor  evil;  but  only  a  place  for 
good  and  evil;  it  is  a  kind  of  tragic  comedy.  Let  it  be  well 
acted,  and  no  matter  whether  it  be  long  or  short.  We  are 
apt  to  be  misled  by  the  appearances  of  things,  and  when 
they  come  to  us,  recommended  in  good  terms,  and  by  great 
example,  they  will  impose  many  times  upon  very  wise  men. 
The  mind  is  never  right  but  when  it  is  at  peace  within  itself, 
and  independent  upon  any  thing  from  abroad.  The  soul  is 
in  heaven  even  while  it  is  in  the  flesh;  if  it  be  purged  of 
natural  corruptions,  and  taken  up  wuth  divine  thoughts,  and 
whether  any  body  sees  us,  or  takes  notice  of  us,  it  matters 


330  EPISTLES 

not.  Virtue  will  of  itself  break  forth,  though  never  so  much 
pains  be  taken  to  suppress  it.  And  it  is  all  one  whether  it  be 
known  or  not;  but  after  ages,  however,  will  do  us  right 
when  we  are  dead,  and  insensible  of  the  veneration  they 
allow  us.  He  that  is  wise  will  compute  the  conditions  of  hu- 
manity, and  contract  the  subject  both  of  his  joys  and  fears. 
And  it  is  time  well  spent  so  to  abate  of  the  one  that  he  may 
likewise  diminish  the  other.  By  this  practice  he  will  come 
to  understand  how  short,  how  uncertain,  and  how  safe,  many 
of  those  things  are  which  we  are  wont  to  fear.  When  I  see  a 
splendid  house,  or  a  glittering  train,  I  look  upon  it  as  I  do 
upon  courts,  which  are  only  the  schools  of  avarice  and  ambi- 
tion; and  they  are  at  best  but  a  pomp,  which  is  more  for  show 
than  possession.  Beside  that,  great  goods  are  seldom  long- 
lived;  and  that  is  the  fairest  felicity  which  is  of  the  shortest 
growth. 


EPISTLE  XIX 

Of  true  courage 

"Fortitude  is"  properly  "the  contempt  of  all  hazards, 
according  to  reason;"  though  it  be  commonly  and  promis- 
cuously used  also,  "for  a  contempt  of  all  hazards,  even 
without  or  against  reason:"  which  is  rather  a  daring  and  a 
brutal  fierceness  than  an  honourable  courage.  A  brave  man 
fears  nothing  more  than  the  weakness  of  being  affected  with 
popular  glory.  His  eyes  are  not  dazzled  either  with  gold  or 
steel;  he  tramples  upon  all  the  terrors  and  glories  of  For- 
tune; he  looks  upon  himself  as  a  citizen  and  soldier  of  the 
world;  and,  in  despite  of  all  accidents  and  oppositions,  he 
maintains  his  station.  He  does  not  only  suffer,  but  court,  the 
most  perilous  occasions  of  virtue,  and  those  adventures  which 
are  most  terrible  to  others:  for  he  values  himself  upon  ex- 
periment, and  is  more  ambitious  of  being  reputed  good  than 
happy.  Mucins  lost  his  hand  with  more  honour  than  he 
could  have  preserved  it:  he  was  a  greater  conqueror  without 
it  than  he  could  have  been  with  it;  for  with  the  very  stump 
of  it  he  overcame  two  kings,  Tarquin  and  Porsenna.  Rutilia 
followed  Cotta  into  banishment;    she  staid,  and  she  returned 


EPISTLES  331 

with  him  too;  and  soon  after  she  lost  him  without  so  much 
as  shedding  a  tear:  a  great  instance  of  her  courage  in  his 
banishment,  and  of  her  prudence  in  his  death.  This  (says 
Epicurus)  is  the  last  and  the  blessedest  day  of  my  life,  when 
he  was  ready  to  expire  in  an  extreme  torment  of  the  stone. 
It  is  never  said  of  the  300  Fabii  that  they  were  overcome,  but 
that  they  were  slain;  nor  of  Regulus,  that  he  was  vanquished 
by  the  Carthaginians,  but  that  he  was  taken.  The  Spartans 
prohibited  all  exercises  where  the  victory  was  declared  by 
the  voice  and  submission  of  him  that  was  worsted.  When 
Phaeton  begged  of  Phoebus  the  government  of  the  chariot  of 
the  sun  for  one  day,  the  poets  make  him  so  far  from  being 
discouraged  by  his  father's  telling  him  of  the  danger  of  the 
undertaking,  and  how  he  himself  had  much  ado  to  keep  his 
seat  for  fear,  when  he  looked  down  from  the  meridian,  that 
it  proved  a  spur  to  his  importunity.  "That  is  the  thing,'* 
says  Phaeton,  "that  I  would  be  at;  to  stand  firm  in  that  dif- 
ficulty where  Phoebus  himself  trembles."  Security  is  the 
caution  of  narrow  minds;  but  as  fire  tries  gold,  so  does  diffi- 
culty and  hazard  try  virtuous  men.  Not  but  that  he  may  be 
as  valiant  that  watches  upon  the  tower  as  he  that  fights  upon 
his  knees;  only  the  one  has  had  the  good  fortune  of  an  occa- 
sion for  the  proof  of  his  resolution.  As  some  creatures  are 
cruel,  others  crafty,  and  some  timorous;  so  man  is  endued 
with  a  glorious  and  an  excellent  spirit,  that  prompts  him  not 
so  much  to  regard  a  safe  life  as  an  honest.  Providence  has 
made  him  the  master  of  this  lower  world,  and  he  reckons  it 
his  duty  to  sacrifice  his  own  particular  to  the  advantage  of 
the  whole.  And  yet  there  is  a  vast  difl^erence  even  in  the 
same  action  done  by  a  brave  person  and  by  a  stupid;  as  the 
death  of  Cato  was  honourable,  but  that  of  Brutus  was  shame- 
ful. Nor  is  it  death  itself  that  we  recommend  for  glorious; 
but  it  is  a  glorious  thing  to  die  as  we  ought.  Neither  is  it 
poverty,  banishment,  or  pain,  that  we  commend;  but  the 
man  that  behaves  himself  bravely  under  those  afflictions. 
How  were  the  gladiators  contemned  that  called  for  quarter, 
and  those  on  the  other  side  favoured  that  despised  it.''  Many 
a  man  saves  his  life  by  not  fearing  to  lose  it;  and  many  a 
man  loses  his  life  by  being  over-solicitous  to  save  it.  We 
are  many  times  afraid  of  dying  by  one  thing,  and  we  come 
to  die  by  another.  As  for  example,  we  are  threatened  by  an 
enemy,  and  we  die  by  a  pleurisy.     The  fear  of  death  enlarges 


332  EPISTLES 

all  other  things  that  we  fear.  To  bear  it  with  constancy,  we 
should  compute,  that  whether  our  lives  be  long  or  short,  it 
comes  all  to  a  point;  some  hours  we  lose;  what  if  they  were 
days,  months,  years?  what  matters  it,  if  I  never  arrive  at 
that  which  I  must  certainly  part  with  when  I  have  it?  Life  is 
but  one  point  of  flying  time,  and  that  which  is  to  come  is  no 
more  mine  than  that  which  is  past.  And  we  have  this  for  our 
comfort  too,  that  whosoever  now  fears  death,  will  some  time 
or  other  come  to  wish  it.  If  death  be  troublesome  or  terri- 
ble, the  fault  is  in  us,  and  not  in  death  itself.  It  is  as  great 
madness  for  a  man  to  fear  that  which  he  is  not  to  feel,  as  that 
which  he  is  not  to  suffer;  the  difference  lies  in  the  manner  of 
dying,  and  not  in  the  issue  of  death  itself.  It  is  a  more 
inglorious  death  to  be  smothered  with  perfume  than  to  be 
torn  to  pieces  with  pincers.  Provided  my  mind  be  not  sick, 
I  shall  not  much  heed  my  body.  I  am  prepared  for  my  last 
hour  without  tormenting  myself  when  it  will  come.  It  is 
betwixt  the  Stoics  and  other  philosophers ,  as  betwixt  men  and 
women;  they  are  both  equally  necessary  for  society;  only 
the  one  is  born  for  government,  and  the  other  for  subjection. 
Other  sects  deal  with  their  disciples  as  plausible  physicians  do 
with  their  patients,  they  flatter  and  humour  them;  whereas 
the  Stoics  go  a  bolder  way  to  work,  and  consider  rather  their 
profit  than  their  pleasure. 


EPISTLE  XX 

It  is  never  too  late  to  learn.  The  advantages  of  a  pri- 
vate life,  and  the  slavery  of  a  public.  The  ends  of 
punishments 

Let  no  man  presume  to  advise  others,  that  has  not  first 
given  good  counsel  to  himself,  and  he  may  then  pretend  to 
help  his  neighbour.  It  is,  in  short,  as  hard  a  matter  to  give 
good  counsel  as  to  take  it;  let  it,  however,  be  agreed  be- 
twixt the  two  parties,  that  the  one  designs  to  confer  a  benefit, 
and  the  other  to  receive  it.  Some  people  scorn  to  be  taught; 
others  are  ashamed  of  it,  as  they  would  be  of  going  to 
school  when  they  are  old;  but  it  is  never  too  late  to  learn 
what  it  is  always  necessary  to  know;  and  it  is  no  shame  to 
learn  so  long  as  we   are  ignorant,  that  is  to  say,  so  long  as 


EPISTLES  333 

we  live.  When  any  thing  is  amiss  in  our  bodies  or  estates, 
we  have  recourse  presently  to  the  physician  or  the  lawyer  for 
help;  and  why  not  to  the  philosopher  in  the  disorders  of  our 
mind?  No  man  lives  but  he  that  applies  himself  to  wisdom; 
for  he  takes  into  his  own  life  the  supplement  of  all  past  ages. 
It  is  a  fair  step  toward  happiness  and  virtue,  to  delight  in  the 
conversation  of  good  and  of  wise  men;  and  where  that  can- 
not be  had,  the  next  point  is,  to  keep  no  company  at  all. 
Solitude  affords  business  enough,  and  the  entertainment  is 
comfortable  and  easy;  whereas  public  offices  are  vexatious 
and  restless.  There  is  a  great  difference  betwixt  a  life  of 
leisure  and  of  laziness.  When  people  will  express  their  envy 
of  a  man  in  a  happy  condition,  they  will  say,  "He  lives  at 
his  ease;"  when  in  truth  the  man  is  dead  alive.  There  is  a 
long  life,  and  there  is  a  long  death;  the  former  when  we 
enjoy  the  benefits  of  a  right  mind,  and  the  other  when  the 
senses  are  extinguished,  and  the  body  dead  beforehand.  He 
that  makes  me  the  master  of  my  own  time,  and  places  me  in 
a  state  of  freedom,  lays  a  great  obligation  upon  me.  As  a 
merchant  that  has  a  considerable  fortune  abroad,  is  more 
sensible  of  the  blessing  of  a  fair  wind  and  safe  passage,  than 
he  that  has  only  ballast,  or  some  coarse  commodity  in  the 
vessel;  so  that  man  that  employs  his  privacy  upon  thoughts 
divine  and  precious,  is  more  sensible  of  the  comfort  of  that 
freedom  than  he  that  bends  his  meditation  an  ill  way.  For 
he  considers  all  the  benefits  of  his  exemption  from  common 
duties,  he  enjoys  himself  with  infinite  delight,  and  makes  his 
gratitude  answerable  to  his  obligations.  He  is  the  best  of 
subjects,  and  the  happiest  of  men;  and  he  lives  to  Nature 
and  to  himself.  Most  men  are  to  themselves  the  worst  com- 
pany they  can  keep.  If  they  be  good,  quiet,  and  temperate, 
they  are  as  good  alone  as  in  company:  but  if  otherwise,  let 
them  converse  with  others,  and  avoid  themselves;  but  he 
that  has  made  himself  good  company,  can  never  be  too  much 
alone.  Many  a  ship  is  lost  in  the  harbour,  but  more  in  the 
ocean;  as  many  an  honest  man  is  condemned,  but  more 
guilty.  This,  however,  is  certain,  he  that  cannot  secure 
himself  in  privacy,  shall  be  much  more  exposed  in  public. 
That  which  the  world  calls  felicity  is  greedy  itself,  and  ex- 
posed to  the  greediness  of  others.  Prosperity,  like  a  fair 
gale  upon  a  strong  current,  carries  a  man  in  a  trice  out  of  the 
very  sight  of  peace  and  quiet;    and  if  it  be  not  tempered  and 


334  EPISTLES 

regulated,  it  is  so  far  from  easing  us,  that  it  proves  an  op- 
pression to  us.  A  busy  and  a  fortunate  man  in  the  world, 
calls  many  men  his  friends,  that  are  at  most  but  his  guests. 
And  if  people  flock  to  him,  it  is  but  as  they  do  to  a  fountain, 
which  they  both  exhaust  and  trouble. 

What  greater  slavery  can  there  be  than  that  of  princes  in 
this  very  respect,  that  they  are  chained  to  their  post,  and  can- 
not make  themselves  less?  All  their  words  and  actions  are 
descanted  upon,  and  made  public  discourse;  and  there  are 
many  things  allowable  to  a  private  man  that  are  not  fit  for  a 
governor.  I  can  walk  alone,  where  I  please  without  a 
sword,  without  fear,  and  without  company;  whereas  a  prince 
must  be  armed  in  peace,  and  cannot  with  dignity  quit  his 
guards.  Fortune  has  him  in  custody:  a  train  besets  him 
wherever  he  goes,  and  there  is  no  making  of  any  escape. 
He  is  little  better  than  nailed  to  his  place,  and  it  is  the  per- 
fection of  his  misery  that  he  cannot  go  less.  He  can  no  more 
conceal  himself  than  the  sun  in  the  firmament:  whereas  his 
subjects  may  go  and  come,  change  habits  and  humour,  with- 
out being  taken  notice  of.  Servitude  is  the  fate  of  palaces, 
the  splendour  of  a  crown  draws  all  men's  eyes  upon  it. 
When  Csesar  speaks,  the  whole  world  hears  his  voice,  and 
trembles  at  his  displeasure;  and  where  it  falls,  it  shakes 
whatsoever  is  near  it.  His  lips  are  the  oracles  of  the  people, 
and  government  is  the  cement  that  binds  them  together;  but 
still  he  that  is  master  of  many  is  the  servant  yet  of  more. 
The  power,  it  is  true,  of  all  things  belongs  to  the  prince,  but 
the  property  to  particular  persons;  and  the  same  thing  may 
be  both  your's  and  mine  in  several  respects.  We  cannot  say 
that  a  son  or  a  servant  has  nothing,  because  a  master  or  a 
father,  may  take  it  away  if  he  will;  or  that  he  cannot  give 
willingly,  because  they  may  hinder  it,  whether  he  will  or  not. 
"This  is  power  and  true  dominion;  and  not  to  rule  and  com- 
mand, when  we  may  do  it  when  we  please."  The  strength 
of  a  prince  is  in  the  love  of  his  people;  for  there  is  nothing 
so  great  but  it  must  itself  perish,  when  it  is  become  the  com- 
mon safety  that  it  should  be  so.  Tyrants  are  hated  because 
they  are  feared:  and  because  they  are  hated,  they  will  be 
feared.  They  are  rendered  odious  to  posterity,  and  they  had 
better  never  been  born,  than  to  stand  upon  record  for  the 
plagues  of  mankind.  Miserable  is  that  people  where  their 
very  keepers  are  their  executioners.     And  it  is  not  an  armed 


EPISTLES  335 

tyranny  neither,  but  the  unarmed  vices  of  avarice  and  envy 
that  we  ought  to  be  most  afraid  of.  Some  will  not  endure  to 
have  their  vices  touched,  but  will  shrink  and  struggle  under 
the  operation  as  if  they  were  under  the  hand  of  a  surgeon. 
But  this  shall  not  hinder  me  from  lancing  and  probing,  be- 
cause of  the  cries  and  groans  of  the  patient.  Every  man 
should  have  a  monitor  at  his  elbow  to  keep  him  from  avarice, 
by  showing  him  how  rich  a  man  may  be  with  a  little:  from 
ambition,  by  representing  the  disquiets  and  hazards  that  ac- 
company greatness;  which  makes  him  as  great  a  burden  to 
others  as  he  is  to  himself.  When  it  comes  to  that  once,  fear, 
anxiety,  and  weariness,  make  us  philosophers.  A  sickly  for- 
tune produces  wholesome  counsels;  and  we  reap  this  fruit 
from  our  adversity,  that  it  brings  us  at  last  to  wisdom. 

Now,  though  clemency  in  a  prince  be  so  necessary  and  so 
profitable  a  virtue:  and  cruelty  so  dangerous  an  excess;  it 
is  yet  the  office  of  a  governor,  as  of  the  master  of  an  hospi- 
tal, to  keep  sick  and  madmen  in  order,  and  in  cases  of  ex- 
tremity, the  very  member  is  to  be  cut  off  with  the  ulcer.  All 
punishment  is  either  for  amendment  or  for  example,  or  that 
others  may  live  more  secure.  What  is  the  end  of  destroying 
those  poisonous  and  dangerous  creatures,  which  are  never  to 
be  reclaimed  but  to  prevent  mischief?  And  yet  there  may  be 
as  much  hazard  in  doing  too  much  as  too  little.  A  particular 
mutineer  may  be  punished,  but  when  the  whole  army  is  in  a 
revolt,  there  must  be  a  general  pardon.  The  multitude  of 
offenders,  is  their  security  and  protection;  for  there  is  no 
quarreling  with  a  public  vice,  where  the  custom  of  offending 
takes  away  the  shame  of  it;  and  it  is  not  prudent  neither,  by 
many  punishments,  to  show  a  city  that  the  wicked  are  so 
much  the  major  part:  beside,  that  it  is  as  great  a  dishonour 
for  a  prince  to  have  many  executions,  as  for  a  physician  to 
have  many  funerals.  Shall  a  father  disinherit  a  son  for  the 
first  offence?  Let  him  first  admonish,  then  threaten,  and  af- 
terward punish  him.  So  long  as  there  is  hope,  we  should 
apply  gentle  remedies;  but  some  nations  are  intractable,  and 
neither  willing  to  serve,  nor  fit  to  command;  and  some  per- 
sons are  incorrigible  too. 


336  .        EPISTLES 

EPISTLE  XXI 

The  two  blessings  of  life  are  a  sound  body  and  a  quiet 
mind.  The  extravagance  of  the  Roman  luxury :  the 
moderation  and  simplicity  of  former  times 

Epicurus  makes  the  two  blessings  of  life  to  be  a  sound  body 
and  a  quiet  mind;  which  is  only  a  compendious  reduction  of 
human  felicity  to  a  state  of  health  and  of  virtue.  The  way 
to  be  happy  is  to  make  vice  not  only  odious,  but  ridiculous, 
and  every  man  to  mind  his  own  business;  for  he  that  tor- 
ments himself  for  other  people's  misfortunes  shall  never  be  at 
rest.  A  virtuous  life  must  be  all  of  a  piece,  and  not  advanced 
by  starts  and  intervals,  and  then  to  go  on  where  it  left;  for, 
this  is  of  losing  ground.  We  are  to  press  and  persevere;  for 
the  main  difficulties  are  yet  to  come.  If  I  discontinue  my 
course,  when  shall  I  come  to  pronounce  these  words?  /  am 
a  conqueror.  Not  a  conqueror  of  barbarous  enemies  and 
savage  nations;  but  I  have  subdued  avarice,  ambition,  and 
those  lusts  that  have  subjected  even  the  greatest  of  conquer- 
ors. Who  was  a  greater  than  Alexander,  that  extended  his 
empire  from  Thracia  to  the  utmost  bounds  of  the  East?  but 
yet  he  burnt  Persepolis  at  the  request  of  a  ■prostitute^  to 
gratify  his  lust.  He  overcame  Darius,  and  slew  many  thou- 
sands of  the  Persians;  but  yet  he  murdered  Calisthenes,  and 
that  single  blot  has  tarnished  the  glory  of  all  his  victories. 
All  the  wishes  of  mortals,  and  all  the  benefits  which  we  can 
either  give  or  receive,  are  of  very  little  conducement  to 
a  happy  life.  Those  things  which  the  common  people 
gape  after,  are  transitory  and  vain;  whereas  happiness  is 
permanent:  nor  is  it  to  be  estimated  by  number,  measure,  or 
parts;  for  it  is  full  and  perfect.  I  do  not  speak  as  if  I  myself 
were  arrived  at  that  blessed  state  of  repose;  but  it  is  some- 
thing yet  to  be  on  the  mending  hand.  It  is  with  me  as  with 
a  man  that  is  creeping  out  of  a  disease;  he  feels  yet  some 
grudgings  of  it,  he  is  every  foot  examining  of  his  pulse,  and 
suspects  every  touch  of  heat  to  be  a  relique  of  his  fever. 
Just  at  that  rate  I  am  jealous  of  myself.  The  best  remedy 
that  I  know  in  this  case  is  to  go  on  with  confidence,  and  not 
to  be  misled  by  the  errors  of  other  people.  It  is  with  our 
manners   as  with  our   healths;  it  is  a  degree  of  virtue,  the 


EPISTLES  337 

abatement  of  vice,  as  it  is  a  degree  of  health,  the  abatement 
of  a  fit. 

Some  place  their  happiness  in  wealth,  some  in  the  liberty 
of  the  body,  and  others  in  the  pleasures  of  the  sense  and 
palate.  But  what  are  metals,  tastes,  sounds,  or  colours,  to 
the  mind  of  a  reasonable  creature.''  He  that  sets  his  heart 
upon  riches,  the  very  fear  of  poverty  will  be  grievous  to 
him;  he  that  is  ambitious,  shall  be  galled  with  envy  at  any 
man  that  gets  before  him:  for,  in  that  case,  he  that  is  not  first 
is  last.  I  do  not  speak  against  riches  neither;  for  if  they 
hurt  a  man,  it  is  his  own  folly.  They  may  be  indeed  the 
cause  of  mischief,  as  they  are  a  temptation  to  those  that  do 
it.  Instead  of  courage,  they  may  inspire  us  with  arrogance; 
and  instead  of  greatness  of  mind,  with  insolence;  which  is 
in  truth  but  the  counterfeit  of  magnanimity.  What  is  it  to 
be  a  prisoner,  and  in  chains?  It  is  no  more  than  that  condi- 
tion to  which  many  princes  have  been  reduced,  and  out  of 
which  many  men  have  been  advanced  to  the  authority  of 
princes.  It  is  not  to  say,  "I  have  no  master:"  in  time  you 
may  have  one.  Might  not  Hecuba,  Croesus,  and  the  mother 
of  Darius,  have  said  as  much?  And  where  is  the  happiness 
of  luxury  either,  when  a  man  divides  his  life  betwixt  the 
kitchen  and  the  stews;  betwixt  an  anxious  conscience  and 
nauseous  stomach?  Caligula,  who  was  born  to  show  the 
world  what  mischief  might  be  done  by  concurrence  of  great 
wickedness  and  a  great  fortune,  spent  near  10,000/.  Sterling 
upon  a  supper.  The  works  and  inventions  of  it  are  prodi- 
gious, not  only  in  the  counterfeiting  of  nature,  but  even  in 
surpassing  it.  The  Romans  had  their  brooks  even  in  their 
parlours;  and  found  their  dinners  under  their  tables.  The 
mullet  was  reckoned  stale  unless  it  died  in  the  hand  of  the 
guest:  and  they  had  their  glasses  to  put  them  into,  that  they 
might  the  better  observe  all  the  changes  and  motions  of  them 
in  the  last  agony  betwixt  life  and  death.  So  that  they  fed 
their  eyes  before  their  bodies.  "Look  how  it  reddens,"  says 
one;  "  there  is  no  vermilion  like  it.  Take  notice  of  these 
veins;  and  that  same  gray  brightness  upon  the  head  of  it. 
And  now  he  is  at  his  last  gasp:  see  how  pale  he  turns,  and 
all  of  a  colour."  These  people  would  not  have  given  them- 
selves half  this  trouble  with  a  dying  friend;  nay,  they  would 
leave  a  father  or  a  brother  at  his  last  hour  to  entertain  them- 
selves with  the  barbarous  spectacle  of  an  expiring  fish.  And 
that  which  enhances  the  esteem  of  every  thing,  is  the  price 


338  EPISTLES 

of  it:  insomuch  that  water  itself,  which  ought  to  be  gratui- 
tous, is  exposed  to  sale  in  their  conservatories  of  ice  and 
snow.  Nay,  we  are  troubled  that  we  cannot  buy  breath, 
light,  and  that  we  have  the  air  itself  gratis,  as  if  our  condi- 
tions were  evil  because  Nature  has  left  something  to  us  in 
common.  But  luxury  contrives  ways  to  set  a  price  upon  the 
most  necessary  and  communicable  benefits  in  nature:  even 
those  benefits  which  are  free  to  birds  and  beasts,  as  well  as  to 
men,  and  serve  indifferently  for  the  use  of  the  most  sluggish 
creatures.  But  how  comes  it  that  fountain-water  is  not  cold 
enough  to  serve  us,  unless  it  be  bound  up  into  ice?  So  long 
as  the  stomach  is  sound,  Nature  discharges  her  functions 
without  trouble;  but  when  the  blood  comes  to  be  inflamed 
with  excess  of  wine  or  meats,  simple  water  is  not  cold 
enough  to  allay  that  heat;  and  we  are  forced  to  make  use  of 
remedies;  which  remedies  themselves  are  vices.  We  heap 
suppers  upon  dinners,  and  dinners  upon  suppers,  without  in- 
termission. Good  God!  how  easy  is  it  to  quench  a  sound 
and  an  honest  thirst?  But  when  the  palate  is  grown  callous, 
we  taste  nothing;  and  that  which  we  take  for  thirst,  is  only 
the  rage  of  a  fever.  Hippocratus  delivered  it  as  an  aphorism, 
that  "women  were  never  bald  nor  gouty,  but  in  one  singular 
case."  Women  have  not  altered  their  nature  since,  but  they 
have  changed  the  course  of  their  lives;  for,  by  taking  the 
liberties  of  men,  they  partake  as  well  of  their  deseases  as  of 
their  wickedness.  They  sit  up  as  much,  drink  as  much;  nay, 
in  their  very  appetities  they  are  masculine  too;  they  have  lost 
-the  advantages  of  their  sex  by  their  vices. 

Our  ancestors,  when  they  were  free,  lived  either  in  caves 
or  in  arbours;  but  slavery  came  in  with  gildings  and  with 
marble.  I  would  have  him  that  comes  into  my  house  take 
more  notice  of  the  master  than  of  the  furniture.  The  golden 
age  was  before  architecture:  arts  came  in  with  luxury,  and 
we  do  not  hear  of  any  philosopher  that  was  either  a  locksmith 
or  a  painter.  Who  was  the  wiser  man,  think  you,  he  that 
invented  a  saw,  or  the  other  who,  upon  seeing  a  boy  drink 
water  out  of  the  hollow  of  his  hand,  brake  his  pitcher,  with 
this  check  to  himself;  "What  a  fool  am  I  to  trouble  myself 
with  superfluities?"  Carving  is  one  man's  trade,  cooking  is 
another's;  only  he  is  more  miserable  that  teaches  it  for  plea- 
sure than  he  that  learns  it  for  necessity.  It  was  luxury,  not 
philosophy,  that  invented  fish-pools  as  well  as  palaces;  where, 
in    case  of  foul  weather  at   sea,   they  might  have   fishes  to 


EPISTLES  339 

supply  their  gluttony  in  harbour.  We  do  not  only  pamper 
our  lusts,  but  provoke  them;  as  if  we  were  to  learn  the  very 
art  of  voluptuousness.  What  was  it  but  avarice  that  origi- 
nally brake  the  union  of  society,  and  proved  the  cause  of 
poverty,  even  to  those  that  were  the  most  wealthy?  Every 
man  possessed  all,  until  the  world  came  to  appropriate  posses- 
sions to  themselves.  In  the  first  age  Nature  was  both  a  law 
and  a  guide,  and  the  best  governed;  which  was  but  according 
to  Nature  too.  The  largest  and  the  strongest  bull  leads  the 
herd;  the  goodliest  elephant;  and  among  men  too,  in 
the  blessed  times  of  innocence,  the  best  was  uppermost. 
They  chose  governors  for  their  manners,  who  neither  acted 
any  violence  nor  suffered  any.  They  protected  the  weak 
against  the  mighty;  and  persuaded  or  dissuaded  as  they  saw 
occasion.  Their  prudence  provided  for  their  people;  their 
courage  kept  them  safe  from  dangers;  their  bounty  both  sup- 
plied and  adorned  their  subjects.  It  was  a  duty  then  to  com- 
mand, not  a  government.  No  man  in  those  days  had  either  a 
mind  to  do  an  injury  or  a  cause  for  it.  He  that  commanded 
well  was  well  obeyed;  and  the  worst  menace  the  governors 
could  then  make  to  the  disobedient,  was  to  forsake  them. 
But  with  the  corruption  of  times,  tyranny  crept  in,  and  the 
world  began  to  have  need  of  laws;  and  those  laws  were 
made  by  wise  men  too,  as  Solon  and  Lycurgus,  who  learned 
their  trade  in  the  school  of  Pythagoras. 


EPISTLE  XXII 

Man  is  compounded  of  soul  and  body:  and  has  natur- 
ally a  civil  war  within  himself.  The  difference  be- 
twixt a  life  of  virtue  and  a  life  of  pleasure 

There  is  not  so  disproportionate  a  mixture  in  any  creature 
as  that  is  in  man,  of  soul  and  body.  There  is  intemperance 
joined  with  divinity,  folly  with  severity,  sloth  with  activity, 
and  uncleanness  with  purity:  but  a  good  sword  is  never  the 
worse  for  an  ill  scabbard.  We  are  moved  more  by  imaginary 
fears  than  truths;  for  truth  has  a  certainty  and  foundation; 
but,  in  the  other,  we  are  exposed  to  the  licence  and  conjec- 
ture of  a  distracted  mind;    and  our  enemies  are  not  more  im- 


340  EPISTLES 

perious  than  our  pleasures.  We  set  our  hearts  upon  transitory- 
things,  as  if  they  themselves  were  everlasting;  or  we,  on  the 
other  side,  to  possess  them  for  ever.  Why  do  we  not  rather 
advance  our  thoughts  to  things  that  are  eternal,  and  contem- 
plate the  heavenly  original  of  all  beings  ?  Why  do  we  not,  by 
the  dignity  of  reason,  triumph  over  the  weaknesses  of  flesh 
and  blood?  It  is  by  Providence  that  the  world  is  preserved, 
and  not  from  any  virtue  in  the  matter  of  it:  for  the  world  is 
as  mortal  as  we  are:  only  the  almighty  Wisdom  carries  it  safe 
through  all  the  motions  of  corruption.  And  so  by  prudence 
human  life  itself  may  be  prolonged,  if  we  will  but  stint  our- 
selves in  those  pleasures  that  bring  the  greater  part  of  us  un- 
timely to  our  end.  Our  passions  are  nothing  else  but  certain 
disallowable  motions  of  the  mind;  sudden  and  eager;  which, 
by  frequency  and  neglect,  turn  to  a  disease;  as  a  distillation 
brings  us  first  to  a  cough,  and  then  to  a  phthisic.  We  are 
carried  up  to  the  heavens  and  down  again  into  the  deep  by 
turns,  so  long  as  we  are  governed  by  our  affections,  and  not 
by  virtue;  passion  and  reason  are  a  kind  of  civil  war  within 
us;  and  as  the  one  or  the  other  has  dominion,  we  are  either 
good  or  bad.  So  that  it  should  be  our  care  that  the  worst 
mixture  may  not  prevail.  And  they  are  linked,  like  the  chain 
of  causes  and  effects,  one  to  another.  Betwixt  violent  passion 
and  a  fluctuation  or  wambling  of  the  mind,  there  is  such  a  dif- 
ference as  betwixt  the  agitation  of  a  storm  and  the  nauseous 
sickness  of  a  calm.  And  they  have  all  of  them  their  symp- 
toms too,  as  well  as  our  bodily  distempers:  they  that  are 
troubled  with  the  falling  sickness,  know  when  the  fit  is  com- 
ing, by  the  cold  of  the  extreme  parts,  the  dazzling  of  the 
eyes;  the  failing  of  the  memory,  the  trembling  of  the  nerves, 
and  the  giddiness  of  the  head;  so  that  every  man  knows  his 
own  disease,  and  should  provide  against  it.  Anger,  love, 
sadness,  fear,  may  be  read  in  the  countenance,  and  so  may 
the  virtues  too.  Fortitude  makes  the  eye  vigorous,  prudence 
makes  it  intent,  reverence  shows  itself  in  modesty,  joy  in 
serenity,  and  truth  in  openness  and  simplicity.  There  are 
sown  the  seeds  of  divine  things  in  mortal  bodies.  If  the 
mind  be  well  cultivated,  the  fruit  answers  the  original;  and 
if  not,  all  runs  into  weeds.  We  are  all  of  us  sick  of  curable 
diseases:  and  it  costs  us  more  to  be  miserable  than  would 
make  us  perfectly  happy.  Consider  the  peaceable  state  of 
clemency    and    the    turbulence    of    anger;   the    softness  and 


EPISTLES  341 

quiet  of  modesty  and  the  restlessness  of  lust.  How  cheap  and 
easy  to  us  is  the  service  of  virtue,  and  how  dear  we  pay  for 
our  vices!  The  sovereign  good  of  man  is  a  mind  that  subjects 
all  things  to  itself,  and  is  itself  subject  to  nothing:  his  plea- 
sures are  modest,  severe,  and  reserved;  and  rather  the  sauce 
or  the  diversion  of  life  than  the  entertainment  of  it.  It  may 
be  some  question,  whether  such  a  man  goes  to  heaven,  or 
heaven  come  to  him:  for  a  good  man  is  influenced  by  God 
himself,  and  has  a  kind  of  divinity  within  him.  What  if  one 
good  man  lives  in  pleasure  and  plenty,  and  another  in  want 
and  misery?  It  is  no  virtue  to  contemn  superfluities,  but  ne- 
cessities: and  they  are  both  of  them  equally  good,  though 
under  several  circumstances,  and  in  diff'erent  stations.  Cato 
(the  censor)  waged  war  with  the  manners  of  Rome;  Scipio 
with  the  enemies.  Nay,  bating  the  very  conscience  of  virtue, 
who  is  there  that,  upon  sober  thoughts,  would  not  be  an 
honest  man,  even  for  the  reputation  of  it.  Virtue,  you  shall 
find  in  the  temple,  in  the  field,  or  upon  the  walls,  covered 
with  dust  and  blood,  in  the  defence  of  the  public.  Pleasures 
you  shall  find  sneaking  in  the  stews,  sweating-houses,  pow- 
dered, and  painted,  &c.  Not  that  pleasures  are  wholly  to 
be  disclaimed,  but  to  be  used  with  moderation,  and  to  be 
made  subservient  to  virtue.  Good  manners  always  please  us; 
but  wickedness  is  restless,  and  perpetually  changing;  not  for 
the  better,  but  for  variety.  We  are  torn  to  pieces  betwixt 
hopes  and  fears;  by  which  means  Providence  (which  is  the 
greatest  blessing  of  Heaven)  is  turned  into  a  mischief.  Wild 
beasts,  when  they  see  their  dangers,  fly  from  them;  and  when 
they  have  escaped  them  they  are  quiet:  but  wretched  man 
is  equally  tormented,  both  with  things  past  and  to  come;  for 
the  memory  brings  back  the  anxiety  of  our  past  fears,  and 
our  foresight  anticipates  the  future;  whereas  the  present 
makes  no  man  miserable.  "If  we  fear  all  things  that  are 
possible,  we  live  without  any  bounds  to  our  miseries." 


342  EPISTLES 

EPISTLE  XXIII 

We  abuse  God's  blessings,  and  turn  them  into  mischiefs. 
Meditations  upon  the  horrors  of  earthquakes,  and  con- 
solations against  them.  Death  is  the  same  thing, 
which  way  soever  it  comes ;  only  we  are  more  moved 
hy  accidents  that  we  are  not  used  to 

There  is  nothing  so  profitable  but  it  may  be  perverted  to  an 
injury.  Without  the  use  of  the  winds,  how  should  we  do  for 
commerce?  Beside  that,  they  keep  the  air  sweet  and  health- 
ful, and  bring  seasonable  rains  upon  the  earth.  It  was  never 
the  intent  of  Providence  that  they  should  be  employed  for 
war  and  devastation;  and  yet  that  is  a  great  part  of  the  use 
we  make  of  them;  pursuing  one  hazard  through  another. 
We  expose  ourselves  to  tempests  and  to  death,  without  so 
much  as  the  hope  of  a  sepulchre.  And  all  this  might  be  borne 
too,  if  we  only  ran  these  risks  in  order  to  peace;  but  when 
we  have  escaped  so  many  rocks  and  flats,  thunder  and  storms, 
what  is  the  fruit  of  all  our  labour  and  terror.?  It  is  only  war; 
to  burn  and  ravage,  as  if  the  earth  were  not  large  enough  for 
the  scene  of  our  destruction;  whereas  we  might  live  and  die 
at  ease,  if  we  had  a  mind  to  it;  and  draw  out  our  lives  in 
security.  Why  do  we  press  our  own  dangers  then,  and  pro- 
voke our  fates.  What  do  we  look  for?  only  death;  which  is 
to  be  found  everywhere.  It  will  find  us  in  our  beds,  in  our 
chambers;  but  where  soever  it  finds  us,  let  it  find  us  inno- 
cent. What  a  madness  is  it  to  pursue  mischiefs;  to  fall  foul 
upon  those  we  do  not  know;  to  be  angry  without  a  cause; 
to  over-run  whatsoever  is  in  our  way;  and,  like  beasts,  to 
like  what  we  have  no  quarrel  to?  Nay,  worse  than  beasts,  we 
run  great  hazards  only  to  bring  us  to  greater.  We  force  our 
way  to  gold  without  any  regard  either  to  God  or  man.  But 
in  all  this,  without  any  cause  of  complaint,  we  abuse  the 
benefits  of  God,  and  turn  them  all  into  mischiefs.  We  dig  for 
gold;  we  leave  the  light,  and  abandon  the  courses  of  a  better 
nature:  we  descend  where  we  find  a  new  position  of  things; 
hideous  caves,  hollow  and  hanging  rocks,  horrid  rivers,  a 
deep  and  perpetual  darkness,  and  not  without  the  apprehension 
even  of  hell  itself.  How  little  now,  and  how  inconsiderable, 
are  those  things  that  men  venture  for  with  the  price  of  their 


EPISTLES  343 

lives  1     But  to  pass  from  those  hazards  that  we  may  avoid  to 
others  which  we  cannot:   as  in  the  case  of  earthquakes. 

In  what  condition  can  any  man  be  safe  when  the  world  itself 
is  shaken,  and  the  only  thing  that  passes  for  fixed  and  un- 
moveable  in  the  universe  trembles  and  deceives  us?  Whither 
shall  we  fly  for  security,  if,  wheresoever  we  are,  the  danger 
be  still  under  our  feet.  Upon  the  cracking  of  a  house  every 
man  takes  himself  to  his  heels  and  leaves  all  to  save  himself; 
but  what  retreat  is  there  where  that  which  should  support  us 
fails  us;  when  the  foundation  not  only  of  cities,  but  even  of 
the  world  itself,  opens  and  wavers?  What  help,  or  what  com- 
fort, where  fear  itself  can  never  carry  us  off?  An  enemy  may 
be  kept  at  a  distance  with  a  wall;  a  castle  may  put  a  stop  to 
an  army;  a  port  may  protect  us  from  the  fury  of  a  tempest; 
fire  itself  does  not  follow  him  that  runs  away  from  it:  a  vault 
may  defend  us  against  thunder;  and  we  may  quit  the  place 
in  a  pestilence;  there  is  some  remedy  in  all  these  evils;  or, 
however,  no  man  ever  knew  a  whole  nation  destroyed 
with  lightning.  A  plague  may  unpeople  a  town,  but  it  will 
not  carry  it  away.  There  is  no  evil  of  such  an  extent,  so  in- 
evitable, so  greedy,  and  so  publicly  calamitous,  as  an  earth- 
quake; for  it  does  not  only  devour  houses,  families,  or  single 
towns,  but  ruins  whole  countries  and  nations,  either  over- 
turning or  swallowing  them  up,  without  so  much  as  leaving 
any  footstep  or  mark  of  what  they  were.  Some  people  have 
a  greater  horror  for  this  death  than  for  any  other:  "to  be 
taken  away  alive  out  of  the  number  of  the  living!"  As  if  all 
mortals,  by  what  means  soever,  were  not  to  come  to  the  same 
end.  Nature  has  eminently  this  justice,  that  when  we  are  all 
dead  we  are  all  alike.  And  it  is  not  a  pin-matter  whether  I 
be  crushed  to  pieces  by  one  stone  or  by  a  whole  a  mountain; 
whether  I  perish  by  the  fall  of  a  house  or  under  the  burden  of 
the  whole  earth;  whether  I  be  swallowed  up  alone  or  with  a 
thousand  more  for  company.  What  does  it  signify  to  me  the 
noise  and  discourse  that  is  made  about  my  death,  when  death 
is  everywhere,  and  in  all  cases,  the  same?  We  should  there- 
fore arm  ourselves  against  that  blow  that  can  neither  be 
avoided  nor  foreseen.  And  it  is  not  the  forswearing  of  those 
places  that  we  find  infested  with  earthquakes  that  will  do  our 
business;  for  there  is  no  place  that  can  be  warranted  against 
them.  What  if  the  earth  be  not  yet  moved,  it  is  still  move- 
able;   for  the  whole  body  of  it  lies  under  the  same  law,  and 


344  EPISTLES 

exposed  to  danger;  only  some  part  at  one  time,  and  some  at 
another.  As  it  is  in  great  cities,  where  all  the  houses  are 
subject  to  ruin,  though  they  do  not  all  fall  together:  so  in  the 
body  of  the  earth;  now  this  part  falls,  and  then  that.  Tyre 
was  formerly  subject  to  earthquakes;  in  Asia  twelve  cities 
were  swallowed  up  in  a  night;  Achaia  and  Macedonia  have 
had  their  turns,  and  now  Campagnia.  The  fate  goes  round, 
and  strikes  at  last  where  it  has  a  great  while  passed  by.  It 
falls  out  oftener,  it  is  true,  in  some  places  than  in  others,  but 
no  place  is  totally  free  and  exempt.  And  it  is  not  only  men, 
but  cities,  coasts;  nay,  the  shores,  and  the  very  sea  itself, 
that  suffers  under  the  dominion  of  Fate.  And  yet  we  are  so 
vain  as  to  promise  ourselves  some  sort  of  assurance  in  the 
goods  of  Fortune,  never  considering,  that  the  very  ground  we 
stand  upon  is  unstable.  And  it  is  not  the  frailty  of  this  or 
that  place,  but  the  quality  of  every  spot  of  it:  for  not  one 
inch  of  it  is  so  compacted  as  not  to  admit  many  causes  of  its 
revolution;  and  though  the  bulk  of  the  earth  remain  entire, 
the  parts  of  it  may  yet  be  broken. 

There  is  not  any  thing  which  can  promise  to  itself  a  lasting 
quiet;  and  it  is  no  small  comfort  to  us,  the  certainty  of  our 
fate;  for  it  is  a  folly  to  fear  where  there  is  a  remedy.  He  that 
troubles  himself  sooner  than  he  needs,  grieves  more  also  than 
is  necessary;  for  the  same  weakness  that  makes  him  antici- 
pate his  misery,  makes  him  enlarge  it  too.  The  wise  fortify 
themselves  by  reason,  and  fools  by  despair.  That  saying 
which  was  applied  to  a  conquered  party  under  fire  and  sword, 
might  have  been  spoken  to  all  mankind,  "That  man  is  in  some 
sense  out  of  danger  that  is  out  of  hope."  He  that  would  fear 
nothing  should  consider,  that  if  he  fear  any  thing,  he  must  fear 
everything.  Our  very  meat  and  drink,  sleeping  and  waking, 
without  measure,  are  hurtful  to  us.  Our  bodies  are  nice  and 
weak;  and  a  small  matter  does  their  work.  That  man  has  too 
high  an  opinion  of  himself  that  is  only  afraid  of  thunder  and 
of  earthquakes.  If  he  were  conscious  of  his  own  infirmities, 
he  would  as  much  fear  the  being  choked  with  his  own  phlegm. 
What  do  we  see  in  ourselves  that  heaven  and  earth  should 
join  in  a  distemper  to  procure  our  dissolution,  when  the  rip- 
ping of  a  hang-nail  is  sufficient  to  dispatch  us?  We  are  afraid 
of  inundations  from  the  sea,  when  a  glass  of  wine,  if  it  go 
the  wrong  way,  is  enough  to  suffocate  us.  It  is  a  great  com- 
fort in  death,  the  very  mortality  itself.       We  creep  under 


EPISTLES  345 

ground  for  fear  of  thunder,  we  dread  the  sudden  concussions  of 
the  earth,  and  the  rages  of  the  sea,  when  yet  we  carry  death  in 
our  own  veins,  and  it  is  in  hand  in  all  places,  and  at  all  times. 
There  is  nothing  so  little  but  it  is  of  force  enough  to  bring  us 
to  our  last  end;  nay,  so  far  should  we  be  from  dreading  an 
eminent  fate  more  than  a  vulgar,  that,  on  the  contrary,  since 
die  we  must,  we  should  rather  rejoice  in  the  breathing  of  our 
last  under  a  more  glorious  circumstance.  What  if  the  ground 
stand  still  within  its  bound,  and  without  any  violence?  I  shall 
have  it  over  me  at  last;  and  it  is  all  one  to  me  whether  be 
laid  under  that,  or  that  lay  itself  over  me.  "  But  it  is  a  terrible 
thing  for  the  earth  to  gape,  and  swallow  a  man  up  into  a  pro- 
found abyss!"  And  what  then?  is  death  any  easier  above 
ground?  What  cause  have  I  of  complaint  if  Nature  will  do 
me  the  honour  to  cover  me  with  part  of  herself?  Since  we 
must  fall,  there  is  a  dignity  in  the  very  manner  of  it,  when  the 
world  itself  is  shocked  for  company.  Not  that  I  would  wish 
for  a  public  calamity;  but  it  is  some  satisfaction  in  my  death 
that  I  see  the  world  also  to  be  mortal. 

Neither  are  we  to  take  these  extraordinary  revolutions  for 
divine  judgments:  as  if  such  motions  of  the  heavens,  and  of  the 
earth,  were  the  denouncings  of  the  wrath  of  the  Almighty: 
but  they  have  their  ordinate  and  their  natural  causes;  such 
as,  in  proportion,  we  have  in  our  own  bodies;  and  while  they 
seem  to  act  a  violence,  they  suffer  it.  But  yet,  for  want  of 
knowing  the  causes  of  things,  they  are  dreadful  to  us;  and 
the  more  so,  because  they  happen  but  seldom.  "But  why 
are  we  commonly  more  afraid  of  that  which  we  are  not  used 
to?"  Because  we  look  upon  Nature  with  our  eyes,  not  with  our 
reason;  rather  computing  what  she  usually  does  than  what 
she  is  able  to  do.  And  we  are  punished  for  this  negligence 
by  taking  those  things  to  which  we  are  not  wonted  to  be 
new  and  prodigious.  The  eclipses  of  the  sun  and  moon,  bla- 
zing stars  and  meteors,  while  we  admire  them  we  fear  them; 
and  since  we  fear  them  because  we  do  not  understand  them, 
it  is  worth  our  while  to  study  them,  that  we  may  no  longer 
fear  them.  Why  should  I  fear  a  man,  a  beast,  an  arrow,  or 
a  lance,  when  I  am  exposed  to  the  encounter  of  greater  dan- 
gers? We  are  assaulted  by  the  more  noble  part  of  Nature  it- 
self; by  the  heavens,  by  the  seas,  and  the  land.  Our  busi- 
ness is  therefore  to  defy  death,  whether  extraordinary  or 
common.     No  matter  for  the  menaces  of   it,  so  long  as  it 


346  EPISTLES 

asks  no  more  of  us  than  age  itself  will  take  from  us,  and 
every  petty  accident  that  befals  us.  He  that  contemns  death, 
what  does  he  care  for  either  fire  or  water;  the  very  dissolution 
of  the  universe?  or  if  the  earth  should  open  under  him,  and 
show  him  all  the  secrets  of  the  internal  pit,  he  would  look 
down  without  trouble.  In  the  place  that  we  are  all  of  us  to 
go  to  there  are  no  earthquakes  or  thunder-claps,  no  tempes- 
tuous seas,  neither  war  nor  pestilence.  "Is  it  a  small  mat- 
ter? why  do  we  fear  it  then?  Is  it  a  great  matter?  let  it 
rather  once  fall  upon  us  than  always  hang  over  us."  Why 
should  I  dread  my  own  end,  when  I  know  that  an  end  I 
must  have,  and  that  all  created  things  are  limited  ? 


EPISTLE  XXIV 

A  discourse  of  God's  providence  in  the  misfortunes  0/ 
good  men  in  this  world,  and  in  the  prosperity  0/  the 
wicked 

You  are  troubled,  I  perceive,  that  your  servant  is  run  away 
from  you;  but  I  do  not  hear  yet  that  you  are  either  robbed, 
or  strangled,  or  poisoned,  or  betrayed,  or  accused,  by  him;  so 
that  you  have  escaped  well  in  comparison  with  your  fellows. 
And  why  should  you  complain,  then,  especially  under  the 
protection  of  so  gracious  a  Providence,  as  suffers  no  man  to 
be  miserable  but  by  his  own  fault  ?  Nor  is  this  a  subject  wor- 
thy of  a  wise  man's  consideration.  Adversity  indeed  is  a 
terrible  thing,  in  sound  and  opinion,  and  that  is  all.  Some 
men  are  banished  and  stript  of  their  estates;  others,  again, 
are  poor  in  plenty  (which  is  the  basest  sort  of  beggary.) 
Some  are  overborne  by  a  popular  tumult,  that  breaks  out  like 
a  tempest,  even  in  the  highest  security  of  a  calm;  or,  like  a 
thunder-clap  that  frights  all  that  are  near  it:  there  is  but  one 
struck,  perhaps,  but  the  fear  extends  to  all,  and  affects  those 
that  may  suffer  as  well  as  those  that  do.  As  in  the  discharge 
of  a  piece  only  with  powder,  it  is  not  the  stroke  but  the  crack 
that  frights  the  birds.  Adversity,  I  will  grant  you,  is  not  a 
thing  to  be  wished  no  more  than  war;  but  if  it  be  my  lot  to 
be  torn  with  the  stone,  broken  upon  the  wheel,  or  to  receive 
wounds  or  maims,  it  shall  be  my  prayer,  that  I  may  bear  my 
fortune  as  becomes  a  wise  and  an  honest  man.     We  do  not 


EPISTLES  347 

pray  for  tortures,  but  for  patience;  not  for  war,  but  for  gene- 
rosity and  courage  in  all  the  extremities  of  a  war,  if  it  hap- 
pen. Afflictions  are  but  the  exercise  of  virtue;  and  an 
honest  man  is  out  of  his  element  when  he  is  idle.  It  must 
be  practice  and  patience  that  perfect  it.  Do  we  not  see  how 
one  wrestler  provokes  another?  and  if  he  find  him  not  to  be 
his  match,  he  will  call  for  somebody  to  help  him,  that  may 
put  him  to  all  his  strength. 

It  is  a  common  argument  against  the  justice  of  Providence, 
in  the  matter  of  reward  and  punishment,  "The  misfortune 
of  good  men  in  this  world,  and  the  prosperity  of  the  wick- 
ed:" but  it  is  an  easy  matter  to  vindicate  the  cause  of  the 
gods.  There  are  many  things  that  we  call  evil,  which  turn 
very  often  to  the  advantage  of  those  that  suffer  them;  or  at 
least  for  the  common  good,  whereof  Providence  has  the 
greater  care.  And  farther,  they  either  befal  those  that  bear 
them  willingly,  or  those  that  deserve  them  by  their  impa- 
tience under  them:  and,  lastly,  they  come  by  divine  ap- 
pointment; and  to  those  that  are  good  men,  even  for  that 
very  reason,  because  they  are  good.  Nor  is  there  any  thing 
more  ordinary  than  for  that  which  we  feared  as  a  calamity  to 
prove  the  foundation  of  our  happiness.  How  many  are 
there  in  the  world  that  enjoy  all  things  to  their  own  wish, 
whom  God  never  thought  worthy  of  a  trial?  If  it  might  be 
imagined  that  the  Almighty  should  take  off  his  thought 
from  the  care  of  his  whole  work,  what  more  glorious  specta- 
cle could  he  reflect  upon  than  a  valiant  man  struggling  with 
adverse  fortune?  or  Cato's  standing  upright  and  unmoved 
under  the  shock  of  a  public  ruin?  "Let  the  whole  world," 
says  he,  "fall  into  one  band,  and  let  Caesar  encompass  me 
with  his  legions  by  land,  his  shipping  at  sea,  and  his  guards 
at  the  gates,  Cato  will  yet  cut  out  his  way;  and  with  that 
weapon  that  was  untainted,  even  in  the  civil  war,  give  him- 
self that  liberty  which  Fate  denied  to  his  country.  Set  upon 
the  great  work  then,  and  deliver  thyself  from  the  clog  of  thy 
humanity.  Juba  and  Petreius  have  already  done  the  good 
office  one  for  the  other,  by  a  generous  concurrence  of  reso- 
lution and  fate;  but  Cato  is  above  example,  and  does  as 
much  scorn  to  ask  his  death  of  any  man  as  his  life."  With 
what  joy  did  this  great  man  contemplate  immortality,  when 
he  took  his  book  and  his  sword  together,  and  in  cold  thoughts 
dispatched  himself!     Let   this   suffice   of  Cato,   whose   virtue 


348  EPISTLES 

Providence  made  use  of  to  cope  with  all  the  powers  of  the 
earth.  His  courage  took  delight  in,  and  sought  for  all  occa- 
sions of  hazard;  keeping  his  eye  still  upon  the  end,  without 
valuing  the  difficulties  of  the  passage.  The  sufferance  is  one 
part  of  the  glory;  and  though  one  man  may  escape  without 
wounds,  yet  he  is  still  more  reverend  and  remarkable  that 
comes  off  bloody.  The  malice  of  great  men  is  grievous, 
you  will  say,  and  yet  he  supported  the  oppositions  of  Pom- 
pey,  Caesar,  and  Crassus.  Is  it  troublesome  to  be  repulsed? 
Vatinius  was  preferred  before  him.  Prosperity  shows  a  man 
but  one  part  of  human  nature.  Nobody  knows  what  such 
a  man  is  good  for;  neither  in  truth  does  he  understand  him- 
self for  want  of  experiment.  Temporal  happiness  is  for 
weak  and  vulgar  minds;  but  the  subduing  of  public  terrors 
is  a  work  that  is  reserved  for  more  generous  spirits.  Calamity 
is  the  touchstone  of  a  brave  mind,  that  resolves  to  live  and 
die  free,  and  master  of  itself.  The  combatant  brings  no 
metal  into  the  field  that  was  never  battered:  he  that  has  lost 
blood,  and  yet  keeps  his  stomach;  he  that  has  been  under 
his  enemy  and  worsted,  and  yet  comes  on  again,  and  gathers 
heart  from  his  misfortunes;  that  is  the  man  of  hope  and 
courage. 

But  is  it  not  a  very  unjust  and  a  rigorous  fate  that  good  men 
should  be  poor  and  friendless.?  All  this  is  no  more  than  the 
natural  work  of  matter  and  form.  Mean  souls  are  meanly 
principled;  but  there  goes  more  to  the  making  up  of  a  brave 
man,  that  is  to  work  out  his  way  through  difficulties  and 
storms.  We  are  condemned  to  terrible  encounters;  and  be- 
cause we  cannot,  according  to  the  course  of  Nature,  avoid 
them,  we  have  faculties  given  us  that  will  enable  us  to  bear 
them;  or,  at  the  worst,  to  have  a  retreat;  if  we  will  not  fight, 
we  may  fly.  So  that  nothing  is  made  more  easy  to  us,  than 
that  which  is  most  necessary  to  us,  to  die.  No  man  is  kept 
in  the  world  against  his  will;  but  adversity  is  the  better  for 
us  all:  for  it  is  God's  mercy  to  show  the  world  their  errors, 
and  that  the  things  they  fear  and  covet,  are  neither  good  nor 
evil;  being  the  common  and  promiscuous  lot  both  of  good 
men  and  bad.  If  they  were  good,  only  the  good  should  enjoy 
them;  and  if  bad,  only  the  wicked  should  suffer  them.  One 
man  is  taken  away  in  a  scuffle  for  a  wench,  and  another  in 
the  defence  of  his  country;  and  we  find  silver  and  gold  both 
in  a  temple  and  in  the  stews. 


EPISTLES  349 

Now,  to  show  you  that  the  virtue  which  I  affect  is  not  so 
imaginary  and  extravagant  as  it  is  taken  to  be,  I  will  allow  a 
wise  man  to  tremble,  to  turn  pale,  nay,  and  to  groan  too,  and 
to  suffer  all  the  affections  of  his  bodily  sense,  provided  that 
he  keep  his  mind  firm  and  free  from  submission  to  his  body; 
and  that  he  does  not  repent  of  his  constancy  (which  is  in  itself 
so  great  a  virtue  that  there  is  some  authority  even  in  a  perti- 
nacious error.  If  the  body  be  brought  by  exercise  to  the 
contempt  of  bruises  and  wounds,  how  much  more  easily  then 
may  the  mind  be  fortified  against  the  assaults  of  Fortune; 
and  though,  perhaps,  thrown  down  and  trod  upon,  yet  re- 
cover itself?  The  body  must  have  meat  and  drink,  much 
labour  and  practice;  whereas  the  food  and  the  business  of 
the  mind  is  within  itself,  and  virtue  maintained  without 
either  toil  or  charge.  If  you  say,  that  many  professors  of 
wisdom  are  wrought  upon  by  menaces  and  mischiefs;  these 
let  me  tell  you,  are  but  proficients,  and  not  as  yet  arrived  at 
the  state  of  wisdom;  they  are  not  strong  enough  to  practice 
what  they  know.  It  is  with  our  dispositions  as  with  our 
clothes;  they  will  take  some  colours  at  one  dipping,  but 
others  must  be  steeped  over  and  over  before  they  will  imbibe 
them.  And  so  for  disciplines,  they  must  soak  and  lie  long  be- 
fore they  take  the  tincture.  No  man  can  receive  an  injury, 
and  not  be  moved  at  it;  but  yet  he  may  keep  himself  free 
from  perturbations:  and  so  far  from  being  troubled  at  them, 
that  he  may  make  use  of  them  for  the  experiment  and  trial 
of  his  virtue;  keeping  himself  still  moderate,  placid,  cheer- 
ful, and  safe  in  a  profound  quiet,  and  fixed  in  his  station. 
"But  if  a  wise  man  cannot  be  poor,  how  comes  it  that  he  is 
many  times  without  either  meat,  drink,  clothes,  or  lodging.? 
If  only  fools  are  mad,  how  comes  it  then  that  wise  men  have 
their  alienations  of  mind,  and  talk  as  idly  in  a  fever  as  other 
people?"  It  is  one  thing,  the  receiving  of  an  injury,  and 
another  thing,  the  concealing  of  an  indignation  for  it;  it  is 
the  body  in  this  case  that  suffers,  (which  is  the  fool's  part) 
but  not  the  mind.  That  man  is  never  the  worse  pilot  that 
by  foul  weather  is  forced  behind  his  business.  When  a  ship 
springs  aleak,  we  do  not  presently  quarrel  either  with  the 
mariners  or  with  the  vessel;  but  some  to  the  pump,  others 
into  the  hold,  to  keep  the  ship  above  water.  And  if  we  can- 
not absolutely  master  it,  we  must  still  work  on,  for  it  is  then 
a  great  point  gained,  if  we  can  but  keep  it  at  a  stay.     Some 


350  EPISTLES 

men  are  strangely  transported  at  the  insolence  of  the  porter 
that  refuses  to  let  them  into  a  great  man's  house:  they  forget 
that  the  door  of  a  prison  is  not  more  strictly  guarded  than 
that  of  a  palace.  He  that  has  business  must  pay  for  his  pas- 
sage, and  sweeten  him,  as  he  would  do  a  churlish  cur  with  a 
sop.  That  which  is  to  be  sold  is  to  be  bought;  he  is  a  weak 
man  that  rates  himself  according  to  the  civility  of  a  slave. 
Let  him  have  a  reverence  for  himself,  and  then  no  matter 
who  despises  him.  What  if  he  should  break  his  staff,  or 
cause  his  master  to  turn  him  away,  or  to  correct  him?  He 
that  contends  supposes  an  equality:  and  even  when  he  has 
got  the  better  of  him,  admits  that  there  was  one.  What  if  he 
should  receive  a  blow?  Cato  (the  greatest  man  of  his  age) 
did  not  only  forgive  it,  but  forget  it. 

It  is  not  to  say  that  this  or  that  is  tolerable  to  a  wise  man, 
or  intolerable.  "If  we  do  not  totally  subdue  Fortune,  For- 
tune overcomes  us."  It  is  the  foundation  of  a  happy  life  for 
a  man  to  depend  upon  himself;  but  an  absolute  tranquillity  of 
mind,  and  a  freedom  from  errors,  must  be  the  business  of 
another  world. 


EPISTLE  XXV 

A  wise  and  a  good  man  is  proof  against  all  accidents 

of  Fate 

The  book  you  promised  me  is  now  come  to  my  hand; 
and  I  opened  it  with  an  intent  to  read  it  over  at  leisure.  But 
when  I  was  once  in,  I  could  not  lay  it  down  again  until  I  had 
gone  through  with  it.  At  present  I  shall  only  tell  you  that  I 
am  exceedingly  pleased  with  the  choice  of  the  subject;  but 
I  am  transported  with  the  spirit  and  gentleness  of  it.  You 
shall  hear  farther  from  me  upon  a  second  reading;  and  you 
need  not  fear  the  hearing  of  the  truth,  for  your  goodness 
leaves  a  man  no  place  for  flattery.  I  find  you  still  to  be  one 
and  the  same  man,  which  is  a  great  matter,  and  only  proper 
to  a  wise  man;  for  fools  are  various:  one  while  thrifty  and 
grave,  another  while  profuse  and  vain.  Happy  is  the  man 
that  sets  himself  right  at  first,  and  continues  so  to  the  end. 
All  fools,  we  say,  are  mad  men,  though  they  are  not  all  of 
them  in  Bedlam.     We  find  some  at  the  bar,  some  upon  the 


EPISTLES  351 

bench,  and  not  a  few  even  in  the  senate  itself.  One  man's 
folly  is  sad;  another's  wanton;  and  a  third  is  busy  and  im- 
pertinent. A  wise  man  carries  all  his  treasures  within  him- 
self: what  Fortune  gives  she  may  take;  but  he  leaves  no- 
thing at  her  mercy.  He  stands  firm,  and  keeps  his  ground 
against  all  misfortunes,  without  so  much  as  changing  coun- 
tenance. He  is  free,  inviolable,  unshaken;  proof  against  all 
accidents,  and  not  only  invincible,  but  inflexible.  So  long  as 
he  cannot  lose  any  thing  of  his  own,  he  never  troubles  him- 
self for  what  is  another's.  He  is  a  friend  to  Providence,  and 
will  not  murmur  at  any  thing  that  comes  to  pass  by  God's 
appointment.  He  is  not  only  resolute,  but  generous  and 
good-natured,  and  ready  to  lay  down  his  life  in  a  good  cause; 
and  for  the  public  safety  to  sacrifice  his  own.  He  does  not 
so  much  consider  the  pleasure  of  his  life  as  the  need  that  the 
world  has  of  him;  and  he  is  not  so  nice  neither  as  to  be 
weary  of  his  life  while  he  may  either  serve  his  wife  or  his 
friends.  Nor  is  it  all  that  his  life  is  profitable  to  them,  but  it 
is  likewise  delightful  to  himself,  and  carries  its  own  reward; 
for  what  can  be  more  comfortable  than  to  be  so  dear  to 
another,  as  for  that  very  reason  to  become  dearer  to  himself? 
If  he  lose  a  child,  he  is  pensive;  he  is  compassionate  to  the 
sick,  and  only  troubled  when  he  sees  men  wallowing  in 
infamy  and  vice:  whereas,  on  the  other  side,  you  shall  see 
nothing  but  restlessness;  one  man  hankering  after  his  neigh- 
bour's wife;  another  in  pain  about  his  own;  a  third  in  grief 
for  a  repulse;  another  as  much  out  of  humour  for  his  suc- 
cess. If  he  lose  an  estate,  he  parts  with  it  as  a  thing  that 
was  only  adventitious:  or  if  it  was  of  his  own  acquiring,  he 
computes  the  possession  and  loss;  and  says  thus  to  himself, 
I  shall  live  as  well  afterward  as  I  did  before.  Our  houses 
(says  he)  may  be  burnt  or  robbed;  our  lands  taken  from  us; 
and  we  can  call  nothing  our  own  that  is  under  the  dominion 
of  Fortune.  It  is  a  foolish  avarice  that  restrains  all  things  to 
a  propriety,  and  believes  nothing  to  be  a  man's  own  that  is 
public:  whereas  a  wise  man  judges  nothing  so  much  his  own 
as  that  wherein  mankind  is  allowed  a  share.  It  is  not  with 
the  blessings  of  Providence  as  it  is  with  a  dole;  where  every 
man  receives  so  much  ahead;  but  every  man  there  has  all. 
That  which  we  eat,  and  either  give  or  receive  with  the  hand, 
may  be  broken  into  parts;  but  peace  and  freedom  of  mind, 
are  not  to  be  divided.     He  that  has  first  cast  off  the  empire 


352  EPISTLES 

of  Fortune,  needs  not  fear  that  of  great  men;  for  they  are 
but  Fortune's  hands;  nor  was  any  man  ever  broken  by  ad- 
versity that  was  not  first  betrayed  by  prosperity.  "But  what 
signifies  philosophy,"  you  will  say,  "if  there  be  a  fate;  if 
we  be  governed  by  Fortune,  or  some  over-ruling  power? 
For  certainties  are  unchangeable,  and  there  is  no  providing 
against  uncertainties.  If  what  I  shall  do  and  resolve,  be 
already  determined,  what  use  of  philosophy?"  Yes,  great  use; 
for,  taking  all  this  for  granted,  philosophy  instructs  and  ad- 
vises us  to  obey  God,  and  to  follow  him  willingly;  to  oppose 
Fortune  resolutely,  and  to  bear  all  accidents. 

Fate  is  an  irrevocable,  and  invincible,  and  an  unchangeable 
decree;  a  necessity  of  all  things  and  actions  according  to 
eternal  appointment.  Like  the  course  of  a  river,  it  moves 
forward,  without  contradiction  or  delay,  in  an  irresistible  flux, 
where  one  wave  pushes  on  another.  He  knows  little  of  God 
that  imagines  it  may  be  controlled.  There  is  no  changing  of 
the  purpose  even  of  a  wise  man;  for  he  sees  beforehand 
what  will  be  best  for  the  future.  How  much  more  unchange- 
able then  is  the  Almighty,  to  whom  all  futurity  is  always  pre- 
sent? "To  what  end  then  is  it,  if  Fate  be  inexorable,  to  of- 
fer up  prayers,  and  sacrifices,  any  farther  than  to  relieve  the 
scruples  and  the  weakness  of  sickly  minds?"  My  answer  is, 
first,  That  the  gods  take  no  delight  in  the  sacrifices  of  beasts, 
or  in  the  images  of  gold  and  silver,  but  in  a  pious  and  obedi- 
ent will.  And,  secondly.  That  by  prayers  and  sacrifices,  dan- 
gers and  aflSictions  may  be  sometimes  removed;  sometimes 
lessened;  other  whiles  deferred:  and  all  this  without  any 
oflfence  to  the  power  or  necessity  of  Fate.  There  are  some 
things  which  Providence  has  left  so  far  in  suspense,  that  they 
seem  to  be  (in  a  manner)  conditional;  in  such  sort,  that  even 
appearing  evils  may,  upon  our  prayers  and  supplications,  be 
turned  into  goods,  which  is  so  far  from  being  against  Fate, 
that  it  is  even  a  part  of  Fate  itself.  You  will  say,  "That 
either  this  shall  come  to  pass  or  not.  If  the  former,  it  will 
be  the  same  thing  if  we  do  not  pray:  and  if  the  other,  it  will 
be  the  same  thing  if  we  do."  To  this  I  must  reply,  that  the 
proposition  is  false,  for  want  of  the  middle  exception  betwixt 
the  one  and  the  other.  This  will  be,  (say  I)  that  is,  if  there  shall 
any  prayers  interpose  in  the  case.  But  then  do  they  object, 
on  the  other  side,  that  this  very  thing  also  is  necessary:  for 
it  is  likewise  determined  by  Fate  either  that  we  shall  pray  or 


EPISTLES  353 

not?  What  if  I  should  now  grant  you  that  there  is  a  fate  also 
even  in  our  very  prayers;  a  determination  that  we  shall 
pray,  and  that  therefore  we  shall  pray?  It  is  decreed  that  a 
man  shall  be  eloquent;  but  upon  condition  that  he  apply 
himself  to  letters;  by  the  same  fate  it  is  decreed  that  he  shall 
so  apply  himself,  and  that  therefore  he  shall  learn.  Such  a 
man  shall  be  rich  if  he  betake  himself  to  navigation:  but  the 
same  fate  that  promises  him  a  great  estate  appoints  also  that 
he  shall  sail,  and  therefore  he  puts  to  sea.  It  is  the  same 
case  in  expiations;  a  man  shall  avoid  dangers,  if  he  can  by 
his  prayers  avoid  the  threatenings  of  divine  vengeance:  but 
this  is  part  of  his  fate  also  that  he  shall  so  do,  and  therefore 
he  does  it.  These  arguments  are  made  use  of  to  prove,  that 
there  is  nothing  left  to  our  will,  but  that  we  are  all  over-ruled 
by  fatalities.  When  we  come  to  handle  that  matter,  we  shall 
show  the  consistency  of  free-will  with  fate,  having  already 
made  it  appear  that,  notwithstanding  the  certain  order  of 
Fate,  judgments  may  be  averted  by  prayers  and  supplications, 
and  without  any  repugnancy  to  Fate;  for  they  are  part  even 
of  the  law  of  Fate  itself.  You  will  say,  perhaps,  "  What 
am  I  the  better  for  the  priest  or  the  prophet;  for  whether  he 
bids  me  sacrifice  or  not,  I  lie  under  the  necessity  of  doing  it?" 
Yes,  in  this  I  am  the  better  for  it,  as  he  is  a  minister  of  Fate. 
We  may  as  well  say  that  it  is  matter  of  fate  that  we  are  in 
health:  and  yet  we  are  indebted  for  it  to  the  physician; 
because  the  benefit  of  that  fate  is  conveyed  to  us  by  his 
hand. 


EPISTLE  XXVI 

All  things  are  'produced  out  of  cause  and  matter;  of 
Providence ;  a  brave  man  is  a  match  for  Fortune 

I  HAD  yesterday  but  the  one-half  of  it  to  myself:  my  dis- 
temper took  up  the  morning,  the  afternoon  was  my  own. 
My  first  trial  was,  how  far  I  could  endure  reading:  and  when 
I  saw  I  could  bear  that,  I  fell  to  writing;  and  pitched  upon 
a  subject  difficult  enough,  for  it  required  great  attention:  but 
yet  I  was  resolved  not  to  be  overcome.  Some  of  my  friends 
coming  in,  told  me  that  I  did  ill,  and  took  me  off:    so  that 


354  EPISTLES 

from  writing  we  passed  into  discourse,  and  made  you  the 
judge  of  the  matter  in  question.  The  Stoics,  you  know,  will 
have  all  things  to  be  produced  out  of  cause  and  matter.  The 
matter  is  dull  and  passive;  susceptible  of  any  thing,  but  not 
capable  of  doing  any  thing  itself.  The  cause  is  that  power 
that  forms  the  matter  this  or  that  way  at  pleasure.  Some 
thing  there  must  be,  of  which  every  thing  is  made;  and  then 
there  must  be  a  workman  to  form  every  thing.  All  art  is  but 
an  imitation  of  nature:  and  that  which  I  speak  in  general  of 
the  world  holds  in  the  case  of  every  particular  person.  As, 
for  example:  The  matter  of  a  statue  is  the  wood,  the  stone, 
or  the  metal;  the  statuary  shapes  it,  and  is  the  cause  of  it. 
Aristotle  assigns  four  causes  to  every  thing.  The  material; 
which  is  the  sine  qua  non,  (or  that  without  which  it 
could  not  be.)  The  efficient;  as  the  workman.  The  for- 
mal; as  that  which  is  stamped  upon  all  operations.  And 
the  final;  which  is  the  design  of  the  whole  work.  Now, 
to  explain  this.  The  first  cause  of  the  statue  (for  the 
purpose)  is  the  copper;  for  it  never  had  been  made  if 
there  had  not  been  something  to  work  upon.  The  second 
is  the  artificer;  for  if  he  had  not  understood  his  art  it  had 
never  succeeded.  The  third  cause  is  the  form;  for  it  could 
never  properly  have  been  the  statue  of  such  or  such  a  person,  if 
such  a  resemblance  had  not  been  put  upon  it.  The  fourth  cause 
is  the  end  of  making  it,  without  which  it  had  never  been 
made;  as  money,  if  it  were  made  for  sale;  glory,  if  the 
workman  made  it  for  his  credit;  or  religion,  if  he  designed 
the  bestowing  of  it  upon  a  temple.  Plato  adds  a  fifth,  which 
he  calls  the  idea^  or  the  exemplar,  by  which  the  workman 
draws  his  copy.  And  he  makes  God  to  be  full  of  these 
figures,  which  he  represents  to  be  inexhaustible,  unchangeable, 
and  immortal.  Now,  upon  the  whole  matter,  give  us  your 
opinion.  To  me  it  seems  that  here  are  either  too  many 
causes  assigned,  or  too  few;  and  they  might  as  well  have  in- 
troduced time  and  place  as  some  of  the  rest.  Either  clear 
the  matter  in  question;  or  deal  plainly,  and  tell  us  that  you 
cannot:  and  so  let  us  return  to  those  cases,  wherein  all  man- 
kind are  agreed,  the  reforming  of  our  lives,  and  the  regula- 
tions of  our  manners.  For  these  subtleties  are  but  time  lost. 
Let  us  search  ourselves  in  the  first  place,  and  afterward  the 
world. 

There  is  no  great  hurt  in  passing  over  those  things  which 


EPISTLES  355 

we  are  never  the  better  for  when  we  know;  and  it  is  so  or- 
dered by  Providence,  that  there  is  no  great  difficulty  in  learn- 
ing or  acquiring  those  things,  which  may  make  us  either 
happier  or  better.  Beside  that,  whatsoever  is  hurtful  to  us 
we  have  drawn  out  of  the  very  bowels  of  the  earth. 

Every  man  knows  without  telling,  that  this  wonderful 
fabric  of  the  universe  is  not  without  a  governor;  and  that 
a  constant  order  cannot  be  the  work  of  Chance:  for  the 
parts  would  then  fall  foul  one  upon  another.  The  motions 
of  the  stars,  and  their  influences,  are  acted  by  the  command 
of  an  eternal  decree.  It  is  by  the  dictate  of  an  almighty 
Power  that  the  heavy  body  of  the  earth  hangs  in  balance. 
Whence  come  the  revolutions  of  the  seasons  and  the  flux 
of  rivers.?  the  wonderful  virtue  of  the  smallest  seeds?  (as 
an  oak  to  arise  from  an  acorn;)  To  say  nothing  of  those  that 
seem  to  be  most  irregular  and  uncertain;  as  clouds,  rain, 
thunder,  the  eruptions  of  fire  out  of  mountains,  earthquakes, 
and  those  tumultuary  motions  in  the  lower  region  of  the  air, 
which  have  their  ordinate  causes;  and  so  have  those  things 
too,  which  appear  to  us  more  admirable,  because  less  fre- 
quent: as  scalding  fountains,  and  new  islands  started  out  of 
the  sea:  or,  what  shall  we  say  of  the  ebbing  and  flowing  of 
the  ocean;  the  constant  times  and  measures  of  the  tides  ac- 
cording to  the  changes  of  the  moon,  that  influences  most 
bodies?  But  this  needs  not;  for  it  is  not  that  we  doubt  of 
Providence,  but  complain  of  it.  And  it  were  a  good  office  to 
reconcile  mankind  to  the  gods,  who  are  undoubtedly  best  to 
the  best.  It  is  against  nature  that  good  should  hurt  good.  A 
good  man  is  not  only  the  friend  of  God,  but  the  very  image, 
the  disciple,  and  the  imitator  of  him,  and  true  child  of  his 
heavenly  Father.  He  is  true  to  himself;  and  acts  with  con- 
stancy and  resolution.  Scipio,  by  a  cross  wind,  being  forced 
into  the  power  of  his  enemies,  cast  himself  upon  the  point  of 
his  sword;  and  as  the  people  were  inquiring  what  was  be- 
come of  the  general;  "The  general,"  says  Scipio,  "is  very 
well,"  and  so  he  expired.  What  is  it  for  a  man  to  fall,  if  we 
consider  the  end,  beyond  which  no  man  can  fall?  We  must 
repair  to  wisdom  for  arms  against  Fortune;  for  it  were  un- 
reasonable for  her  to  furnish  arms  against  herself.  A  gallant 
man  is  Fortune's  match:  his  courage  provokes  and  despises 
those  terrible  appearances  that  would  otherwise  enslave  us. 
A  wise  man  is  out  of  the  reach  of  Fortune,  but  not  free  from 


356  EPISTLES 

the  malice  of  it;  and  all  attempts  upon  him  are  no  more  than 
Xerxes's  arrows;  they  may  darken  the  day,  but  they  cannot 
strike  the  sun.  There  is  nothing  so  holy  as  to  be  privileged 
from  sacrilege;  but  to  strike  and  not  to  wound  is  anger  lost; 
and  he  is  invulnerable  that  is  struck  and  not  hurt.  His  resolu- 
tion is  tried;  the  waves  may  dash  themselves  upon  a  rock, 
but  not  break  it:  temples  may  be  profaned  and  demolished, 
but  the  Deity  still  remains  untouched. 


EPISTLE  XXVII 

Some  traditions  of  the  Ancients  concerning  thunder  and 
lightning ;  with  the  author  s  contemplations  thereupon 

There  is  no  question  but  that  Providence  has  given  to 
mortals  the  tokens  or  forerunners  of  things  to  come;  and, 
by  those  means,  laid  open,  in  some  measure,  the  decrees  of 
Fate:  only  we  take  notice  of  some  things,  without  giving 
any  heed  to  others.  There  is  not  any  thing  done,  according 
to  the  course  of  nature,  which  is  not  either  the  cause  or  the 
sign  of  something  that  follows:  so  that  wheresoever  there  is 
order,  there  is  place  for  prediction.  But  there  is  no  judgment 
to  be  given  upon  accidents.  Now,  though  it  is  a  very  hard 
matter  to  arrive  at  the  foreknowledge  of  things  to  come,  and 
to  predict  particularly  what  shall  hereafter  fall  out,  upon  a 
certain  knowledge  of  the  power  and  influence  of  the  stars; 
it  is  yet  unquestionable  that  they  have  a  power,  though  we 
cannot  expressly  say  what  it  is.  In  the  subject  of  thunder 
there  are  several  opinions  as  to  the  significations,  of  it.  The 
Stoics  hold,  that  because  the  cloud  is  broken,  therefore  the 
holt  is  shot,  (according  to  common  speech.)  Others  conjec- 
ture that  the  cloud  is  broken  to  that  very  end  that  it  may 
discharge  the  thunderbolt,  referring  all  in  such  sort  to  God, 
as  if  the  signification  did  not  arise  from  the  thing  done,  but 
as  if  the  thing  itself  were  done  for  the  signification's  sake: 
but  whether  the  signification  goes  before  or  follows,  it  comes 
all  to  the  same  point.  There  are  three  sorts  of  lightning; 
the  first  is  so  pure  and  subtile  that  it  pierces  through  what- 
soever it  encounters:  the  second  scatters  and  breaks  every 
thing  to  pieces:    the  other  burns,  either  by  blasting,  consum- 


EPISTLES  357 

ing,  inflaming,  or  discolouring,  and  the  like.  Some  lightnings 
are  monitory,  some  are  menacing,  and  others  they  fancy  to 
be  promising.  They  allot  to  Jupiter  three  sorts;  the  first  is 
only  monitory  and  gentle,  which  he  casts  of  his  own  ac- 
cord: the  second  they  make  to  be  an  act  of  council,  as  being 
done  by  the  vote  and  advice  of  twelve  gods.  This,  they 
say,  does  many  times  some  good,  but  not  without  some,  mis- 
chief too;  as  the  destruction  of  one  man  may  prove  the 
caution  of  another.  The  third  is  the  result  of  a  council  of 
the  superior  deities,  from  whence  proceed  great  mischiefs 
both  public  and  private.  Now,  this  is  a  great  folly  to  ima- 
gine that  Jupiter  would  wreak  his  displeasure  upon  pillars, 
trees,  nay,  upon  temples  themselves,  and  yet  let  the  sacrile- 
gious go  free;  to  strike  sheep,  and  consume  altars,  and  all 
this  upon  a  consultation  of  the  gods;  as  if  he  wanted  either 
skill  or  justice  to  govern  his  own  affairs  by  himself,  either  in 
sparing  the  guilty,  or  in  destroying  the  innocent.  Now, 
what  should  be  the  mystery  of  all  this?  The  wisdom  of  our 
forefathers  found  it  necessary  to  keep  wicked  people  in  awe 
by  the  apprehension  of  a  superior  power;  and  to  fright  them 
into  their  good  behaviour,  by  the  fear  of  an  armed  and  an 
avenging  justice  over  their  heads.  But  how  comes  it,  that 
the  lightning,  which  comes  from  Jupiter  himself,  should  be 
said  to  be  harmless,  and  that  which  he  casts  upon  counsel  and 
advice  to  be  dangerous  and  mortal?  The  moral  of  it  is  this, 
that  all  kings  should  have  Jupiter's  example;  do  all  good  by 
themselves,  and  when  severity  is  necessary,  permit  that  to  be 
done  by  others:  beside  that,  as  crimes  are  unequal,  so  also 
should  be  the  punishments.  Neither  did  they  believe  that 
Jupiter  to  be  the  thunderer,  whose  image  was  worshipped  in  the 
Capitol,  and  in  other  places;  but  intended  it  for  the  Maker 
and  Governor  of  the  universe  by  what  name  soever  we  shall 
call  him.  Now,  in  truth,  Jupiter  does  not  immediately  cast 
the  lightning  himself,  but  leaves  Nature  to  her  ordinary 
method  of  operation;  so  that  what  he  does  not  immediately 
by  himself,  he  does  yet  cause  to  be  done:  for,  whatsoever 
Nature  does,  God  does.  There  may  be  something  gathered 
out  of  all  things  that  are  either  said  or  done,  that  a  man  may 
be  the  better  for:  and  he  does  a  greater  thing  that  masters 
the  fear  of  thunder,  than  he  that  discovers  the  reason  of  it. 
We  are  surrounded  and  beset  with  ill  accidents;  and  since 
we  cannot  avoid  the  stroke  of  them,  let  us  prepare  ourselves 


358  EPISTLES 

honestly  to  bear  them.  But  how  must  that  be?  By  the  con- 
tempt of  death  we  do  also  contemn  all  things  in  the  way  to 
it;  as  wounds,  shipwrecks,  the  fury  of  wild  beasts,  or  any 
other  violence  whatsoever;  which,  at  the  worst,  can  but 
part  the  soul  and  the  body.  And  we  have  this  for  our  com- 
fort, though  our  lives  are  at  the  mercy  of  Fortune,  she  has 
yet  no  power  over  the  dead. 

How  many  are  there  that  call  for  death  in  the  distress  of 
their  hearts,  even  for  the  very  fear  of  it.?  and  this  unad- 
vised desire  of  death  does  in  common  affect  both  the  best 
and  the  worst  of  men;  only  with  this  difference,  the  former 
despise  life,  and  the  other  are  weary  of  it. 

It  is  a  nauseous  thing  to  serve  the  body,  and  to  be  so  many 
years  doing  so  many  beastly  things  over  and  over.  It  is 
well  if  in  our  lives  we  can  please  others;  but  whatever  we 
do  in  our  deaths,  let  us  be  sure  to  please  ourselves.  Death  is 
a  thing  which  no  care  can  avoid,  no  felicity  can  time  it,  no 
power  overcome  it.  Other  things  are  disposed  of  by  Chance 
and  Fortune,  but  Death  treats  all  men  alike. 

The  prosperous  must  die  as  well  as  the  unfortunate;  and 
methinks  the  very  despair  of  overcoming  our  fate  should 
inspire  us  with  courage  to  encounter  it:  for  there  is  no  reso- 
lution so  obstinate  as  that  which  arises  from  necessity.  It 
makes  a  coward  as  bold  as  Julius  Caesar,  though  upon  dif- 
ferent principles.  We  are  all  of  us  reserved  for  death;  as 
Nature  brings  forth  one  generation  she  calls  back  another.  The 
whole  dispute  is  about  the  time,  but  nobody  doubts  about  the 
thing  itself. 


EPISTLE  XXVIII 

A  contemplation  of  heaven,  and  heavenly  things.     Of 
God :  and  of  the  soul 

There  is  a  great  difference  betwixt  philosophy  and  other 
arts;  and  a  greater  yet  betwixt  that  philosophy  itself,  which 
is  of  divine  contemplation,  and  that  which  has  a  regard  to 
things  here  below.  It  is  much  higher  and  braver;  it 
takes  a  larger  scope:  and  being  unsatisfied  with  what  it  sees, 
it  aspires  to  the  knowledge  of  something  that  is  greater  and 


EPISTLES  359 

fairer,  and  which  Nature  has  placed  out  of  our  ken.  The 
one  only  teaches  us  what  is  to  be  done  on  earth;  the  other 
reveals  to  us  that  which  actually  is  done  in  heaven:  the  one 
discusses  our  errors,  and  holds  the  light  to  us,  by  which  we 
distinguish  in  the  ambiguities  of  life;  the  other  surmounts 
that  darkness  which  we  are  wrapt  up  in,  and  carries  us  up  to 
the  Fountain  of  light  itself.  And  then  it  is  that  we  are  in  a 
special  manner  to  acknowledge  the  infinite  grace  and  bounty 
of  the  nature  of  things,  when  we  see  it,  not  only  where  it  is 
public  and  common,  but  in  the  very  secrets  of  it;  as  being 
admitted  into  the  cabinet  of  the  Divinity  itself.  There  it  is 
that  we  are  taught  to  understand  what  is  the  matter  of  the 
world,  who  is  the  Author  and  Preserver  of  it.  What  God 
himself  is;  and  whether  he  be  wholly  intent  upon  himself, 
or  at  any  time  descends  to  consider  us.  Whether  he  has 
done  his  work  once  for  all;  or  whether  he  be  still  in  action; 
whether  he  be  a  part  of  the  world,  or  the  world  itself:  whether 
he  be  at  liberty  or  not  to  determine  any  thing  anew  to-day, 
and  to  control  or  derogate  from  the  law  of  Fate:  whether  it 
be  any  diminution  of  his  wisdom,  or  any  confession  of  error, 
to  do  and  undo;  or  to  have  made  things  that  were  afterward 
to  be  altered:  for  the  same  things  must  of  necessity  always 
please  him,  who  can  never  be  pleased  but  with  that  which  is 
best.  Now,  this  is  no  lessening  either  of  his  liberty,  or  of  his  pow- 
er; for  he  himself  is  his  own  necessity.  Without  the  benefits  and 
the  comfort  of  these  thoughts,  it  had  been  even  as  well  for  us 
never  to  have  been  born.  For  to  what  end  do  we  live;  is  it 
only  to  eat  and  to  drink?  to  stuff  up  an  infirm  and  fluid  car- 
cass, that  would  perish  without  it:  and  to  live  only  a  servant 
to  one  that  is  sick?  to  fear  death,  to  which  we  are  all  born? 
Take  away  this  inestimable  good,  and  life  itself  is  not  worth 
the  labour  and  the  care  of  it.  Oh!  how  wretched,  how  con- 
temptible a  thing  were  man,  if  he  should  not  advance  himself 
above  the  state  of  human  affairs!  So  long  as  we  struggle  with 
our  passions,  what  is  there  in  this  world  that  we  do  which  is 
glorious  ?  Nay,  if  we  advance  ourselves  so  far  as  to  overcome 
them,  it  is  but  the  destroying  of  so  many  monsters.  And 
have  we  not  then  a  mighty  exploit  to  value  ourselves  upon, 
when  we  have  made  ourselves  a  little  more  tolerable  than 
the  worst  of  men?  Is  it  not  a  wonderous  matter  to  brag  of 
that  we  are  a  little  stronger  than  a  man  that  is  sick?  Alas! 
alas!    my  friend,  there  is  a  large  difference  betwixt  strength 


36o  EPISTLES 

and  health.  You  have  not  a  wicked  mind,  perhaps;  you 
may  have  a  clear  brow,  a  tongue  that  will  not  flatter,  and  a 
single  heart;  you  have  not  that  avarice,  perchance,  that 
refuses  to  itself  whatsoever  it  takes  from  other  people;  nor 
that  luxury  that  squanders  away  money  shamefully,  and  yet 
more  shamefully  repairs  it;  nor  that  ambition  that  leads  you, 
by  unworthy  ways,  to  places  of  preferment.  These  are 
only  negatives;  and  you  have  got  nothing  all  this  while. 
You  will  tell  me  that  you  have  escaped  many  things;  but  you 
have  not  yet  escaped  yourself.  The  virtue  that  we  recom- 
mend is  high  and  illustrious.  Not  that  it  is  a  happiness  in 
itself  to  be  free  from  evil,  but  because  it  dignifies  and  en- 
larges the  mind;  because  it  prepares  for  the  knowledge  of 
heavenly  things,  and  makes  it  capable  even  of  conversing 
with  God  himself.  It  is  then  arrived  at  the  highest  pitch  of 
human  felicity,  when  it  soars  aloft  and  enters  into  the  privacies 
of  Nature,  trampling  all  that  is  evil  or  vulgar  under  its  feet. 
What  a  delight:  what  a  transport  is  it,  for  a  soul  that  is  wan- 
dering among  the  stars,  to  look  down,  and  laugh  at  the  palaces 
of  princes,  and  the  whole  globe  of  the  earth,  and  all  its  trea- 
sures! I  do  not  speak  of  that  only  that  is  converted  into 
money  and  plate,  but  of  that  also  which  is  reserved  in  the 
bowels  of  the  earth,  to  gratify  the  insatiable  covetousness  of 
posterity.  Nor  can  we  ever  bring  ourselves  to  the  ab- 
solute contempt  of  luxurious  ornaments,  rich  furniture,  stately 
buildings,  pleasant  gardens  and  fountains,  until  we  have  the 
world  under  us,  and  until  looking  down  from  the  heavens 
and  beholding  that  spot  of  ground  we  live  upon,  the  greater 
part  of  it  covered  with  the  sea,  beside  a  great  deal  of  it  de- 
solate, and  either  scorched  or  frozen;  we  shall  say  thus  to 
ourselves,  "Is  this  miserable  point  the  ball  of  contention, 
that  is  divided  among  so  many  nations  with  fire  and  sword? 
How  ridiculous  are  the  bounds  as  well  as  the  contests  of 
mortals!  Such  a  prince  must  not  pass  such  a  river,  nor 
another  prince  those  mountains;  and  why  do  not  the  very 
pismires  canton  out  their  posts  and  jurisdiction  too?"  For 
what  does  the  bustle  of  troops  and  armies  amount  to  more 
than  the  business  of  a  swarm  of  ants  upon  a  mole-hill?  The 
scene  of  all  the  important  actions  here  below,  where  both  at 
sea  and  land  we  tug  and  scuffle  for  dominion  and  wealth,  is 
but  a  wretched  point  of  earth;  whereas  the  dominions  of  the 
soul  above  are  boundless.     This  very  contemplation  gives  us 


EPISTLES  361 

force,  liberty,  and  nourishment;  the  mind  is  there  at  home, 
and  it  has  this  argument  of  its  divinity,  that  it  takes  delight 
in  what  is  divine:  it  contemplates  the  rising  and  the  falling 
of  the  stars,  and  the  admirable  harmony  of  order  even  in 
their  various  motions;  discussing  and  inquiring  into  every 
thing,  as  properly  appertaining  unto  itself.  With  how  much 
scorn  does  it  then  reflect  upon  the  narrowness  of  its  former 
habitation?  There  it  is  that  it  learns  the  end  of  its  proper 
being,  the  knowledge  of  God.  And  what  is  God.?  "An  im- 
mense and  an  almighty  power;  great,  without  limits;  and 
he  does  whatsoever  pleases  him."  He  that  applies  himself 
to  this  study  transcends  the  very  lot  and  condition  of  his 
mortality.  That  almighty  Power  is  all  that  we  do  see,  and 
all  that  we  do  not  see.  What  is  the  difference  betwixt  the 
divine  Nature  and  ours?  Man  is  compounded,  and  his  best 
part  is  his  mind;  but  the  Almighty  is  all  mind,  and  all  rea- 
son; and  yet  mortals  are  so  blind,  that  the  actions  of  this 
incomprehensible  power,  so  excellent  for  beauty,  constancy, 
and  disposition,  are  looked  upon  by  many  men  only  as  for- 
tituous,  and  the  work  of  Chance,  and  subject  to  all  the 
tumults  of  thunder,  clouds,  and  tempests,  that  affect  poor 
mortals.  And  this  is  not  only  the  folly  and  madness  of  the 
common  people,  but  the  weakness  also  of  the  wise  men. 
There  are  that  arrogate  to  themselves  the  faculties  of  Provi- 
dence and  reason,  and  the  skill  of  disposing  as  well  other 
people's  affairs  as  their  own:  and  yet  these  very  men  are  so 
besotted,  as  to  imagine  the  world  only  to  be  governed  by  an 
unadvised  rashness,  as  if  Nature  knew  not  what  she  did. 
How  profitable  would  it  be  for  us  to  know  the  truth  of 
things,  and  to  allow  them  their  terms  due  and  measures?  To 
inquire  into  the  power  of  the  Almighty,  and  the  method  of 
his  workings:  whether  he  made  the  matter  itself  or  found  it 
ready  to  his  hand;  and  whether  was  first,  the  matter  itself,  or 
the  idea  of  it?  Whether  or  not  he  does  what  he  pleases;  and 
what  may  be  the  reason  of  so  many  seeming  imperfections 
in  his  operations?  It  is  well  said  of  Aristotle,  that  we  should 
handle  divine  matters  with  modesty  and  reverence.  When 
we  enter  into  a  temple,  or  approach  the  altar,  we  compose 
our  looks  and  our  actions  to  all  the  decencies  of  humility 
and  respect;  how  much  more  then  does  it  concern  us,  when 
we  treat  of  heavenly  things,  to  deal  candidly,  and  not  to  let 
one  syllable   pass   our  lips   that  may   savour  of  confidence. 


362  EPISTLES 

rashness,  or  ignorance?  Truth  lies  deep,  and  must  be  fetched 
up  at  leisure.  How  many  mysteries  are  there,  which  God 
has  placed  out  of  our  sight,  and  which  are  only  to  be  reached 
by  thought  and  contemplation!  The  notions  of  the  Divinity 
are  profound  and  obscure;  or  else  perhaps  we  see  them  with- 
out understanding  them.  But  the  divine  Majesty  is  only  ac- 
cessible to  the  mind.  What  this  is  (without  which  nothing 
is)  we  are  not  able  to  determine:  and  when  we  have  guessed 
at  some  sparks  of  it,  the  greater  part  lies  yet  concealed  from 
us.  How  many  creatures  have  we  now  in  this  age,  that 
never  were  known  to  us  before?  and  how  many  more  will 
the  next  age  know  more  than  we  do?  And  many  yet  will  be 
still  reserved  for  after-times.  The  very  rites  of  religion  are 
at  this  day  a  secret,  and  unknown  to  many  people.  Nay,  the 
very  thing  that  we  most  eagerly  pursue,  we  are  not  yet  ar- 
rived at;  that  is  to  say,  a  perfection  in  wickedness.  Vice  is 
still  upon  the  improvement;  luxury,  immodesty,  and  a  pros- 
titute dissolution  of  manners,  will  find  still  new  matter  to 
work  upon.  Our  men  are  grown  effeminate  in  their  habits, 
in  their  motions,  and  in  their  ornaments,  even  to  the  degree 
of  whorishness.  There  is  nobody  minds  philosophy  but  for 
want  of  comedy,  perhaps,  or  in  foul  weather,  when  there  is 
nothing  else  to  be  done. 


346  EPISTLES. 

rashness,  or  ignorance?  Truth  lies  deep,  and  must  be  fetched 
up  at  leisure.  How  many  mysteries  are  there,  which  God 
lias  placed  out  of  our  sight,  and  which  are  only  to  be  reached 
by  thought  and  contemplation!  The  notions  of  the  Divinity 
are  profound  and  obscure  ;  or  else  perhaps  we  see  them  with- 
out understanding  them.  But  the  divine  Majesty  is  only  ac- 
cessible to  the  mind.  What  this  is  (without  which  nothing 
is)  we  are  not  able  to  determine  :  and  when  we  have  guessed 
at  some  sparks  of  it,  the  greater  part  lies  yet  concealed  from 
us.  How  many  creatures  have  we  now  in  this  age,  that 
never  were  known  to  us  before  ?  and  how  many  more  will 
the  next  age  know  more  than  we  do  ?  And  many  yet  will  be 
still  reserved  for  after-times.  The  very  rites  of  religion  are 
at  this  day  a  secret,  and  unknown  to  many  people.  Nay,  the 
very  thing  that  we  most  eagerly  pursue,  we  are  not  yet  ar- 
rived at ;  that  is  to  say,  a  perfection  in  wickedness.  Vice  is 
still  upon  the  improvement ;  luxury,  immodesty,  and  a  pros- 
titute dissolution  of  manners,  will  find  still  new  matter  to 
work  upon.  Our  men  are  grown  effeminate  in  their  habits, 
in  their  tnotions,  and  in  their  oi-namenis,  even  to  the  degree 
of  whorishness.  There  is  nobody  minds  philosophy  but  fpr 
want  of  comedy,  perhaps,  or  iii  foul  weather,  wjicn  there  ia 
nothing  else  to  be  done. 


POSTSCRIPT 


JjEFORE  I  take  my  last  leave  of  Seneca,  I  will  here  dis- 
charge my  conscience,  as  if  I  were  upon  my  last  leave  with  the 
whole  woFld. '  I  have  been  so  just,  both  to  the  reader  and  to 
the  author,  that  I  have  neither  left  out  any  thing  in  the  ori- 
ginal, which  I  thought  the  one  might  b6  the  better  for ;  nor 
added  any  thing  of  my  own,  to  make  the  other  fare  the  worte. 
I  have  done  in  this  volume  of  Epistles,  as  a  good  husband 
does  with  his  cold  meat ;  they  are  only  hash,  made  up  of  the 
fragments  that  remained  of  the  two  former  part's ;  which  I 
could  not  <veU  dispose  of  into  any  other  form,  or  so  properly 
publish  under  any  other  title.  Letme  not  yet  be  understood 
to  impose  this  piece  upoa  the  public  as  an  abstract  of  Seneca's 
Epistles,  any  more  than  I  did  the  other,  (or  the  abstracts  of  his 
Benefits,  and  Happy  Life.  It  b  in  works  of  this  nature  as  it  is 
in  cordial  waters,  we  taste  all  the  ingredients,  without  being  able 
to  separate. ^Ais  from  that  ;  but  still  we  find  the  virtue  of  eveiy 
plant  in  every  drop.  To  return  to  my  allegory ;  books  and 
dishes  have  tnis  common  fate  ;  there  was  never  any  one  of 
either  oi  them  that  pleased  all  palates.  And,  in  truth,  it  is  a 
fAing  as  little  to  be  wished  for  as  expected;  for  an  universal 
applause  is  at  least  two-thirds  of  a  scandal.  So  that  though  E 
deliver  up  these  papers  to  the  press,  I  invite  no  man  to  the 
reading  of  them  :  and  whosoever  reads  and  repents,  it  is  his 
own  fault. .  To  conclude :  As  I  made  this  composition  pridci- 
pally  for  myself,  so  it  agrees  exceedingly  well  with  my  con- 
stitution ;  and  yet,  if  any  man  has  a  mind  to  take  part  with 
me,  he  has  free  leave,  and  welcome.  But  let  him  carry  this 
consideration  along  with  him,  thai  he  is  a  very  unmmnerly 
guest,  that  presses  upon  another  body's  table  and  then  qmrfcU 
isithhis  dinner. 


POSTSCRIPT 


B 


'EFORE  I  take  my  last  leave  of  Seneca,  I  will  here  dis- 
charge my  conscience,  as  if  I  were  upon  my  last  leave  with  the 
whole  world.  I  have  been  so  just,  both  to  the  reader  and  to 
the  author,  that  I  have  neither  left  out  any  thing  in  the  ori- 
ginal, which  I  thought  the  one  might  be  the  better  for;  nor 
added  any  thing  of  my  own,  to  make  the  other  fare  the  worse. 
I  have  done  in  this  volume  of  Epistles,  as  a  good  husband 
does  with  his  cold  meat;  they  are  only  hash,  made  up  of  the 
fragments  that  remained  of  the  two  former  parts;  which  I 
could  not  well  dispose  of  into  any  other  form,  or  so  properly 
publish  under  any  other  title.  Let  me  not  yet  be  understood 
to  impose  this  piece  upon  the  public  as  an  abstract  of  Seneca's 
Epistles,  any  more  than  I  did  the  other,  for  the  abstracts  of  his 
Benefits,  and  Happy  Life.  It  is  in  works  of  this  nature  as  it  is 
in  cordial  waters,  we  taste  all  the  ingredients,  without  being  able 
to  separate  this  from  that;  but  still  we  find  the  virtue  of  every 
plant  in  every  drop.  To  return  to  my  allegory;  books  and 
dishes  have  this  common  fate;  there  was  never  any  one  of 
either  of  them  that  pleased  all  palates.  And,  in  truth,  it  is  a 
thing  as  little  to  be  wished  for  as  expected;  for  an  universal 
applause  is  at  least  two-thirds  of  a  scandal.  So  that  though  I 
deliver  up  these  papers  to  the  press,  I  invite  no  man  to  the 
reading  of  them:  and  whosoever  reads  and  repents,  it  is  his 
own  fault.  To  conclude:  As  I  made  this  composition  princi- 
pally for  myself,  so  it  agrees  exceedingly  well  with  my  con- 
stitution; and  yet,  if  any  man  has  a  mind  to  take  part  with 
me,  he  has  free  leave,  and  welcome.  But  let  him  carry  this 
consideration  along  with  him,  that  he  is  a  very  unmannerly 
guest,  that  presses  upon  another  body's  table  and  then  quarrels 
with  his  dinner. 


AN  AFTER-THOUGHT. 


X  HIS  abstract  has  nowpassed  the  fifth  impression ;  but  the 
world  has  not  been  altogether  so  kind  of  late  to  my  politics  as  to 
ray  morals.  And  what  is  the  meaning  of  it,  bat  that  \v«  live 
jn  an  age  thatwill  better  bearthe  image  of  what  people  ought 
(o  do  than  the  history  of  what  they  do  ?  and  that  is  the  dif- 
ference they  put  betwixt  the  one  and  the  otiier.  We  are  pot 
yet  to  take  an  estimate  of  the  intrinsic  vahie  of  truth,  honesty, 
and  reason,  by  fancy  or  imagination  ;  as  if  the  standard  of 
virtue  were  to  be  accommodated  to  the  various  changes  and 
vicissitudes  of  times,  interests,  and  contending  parties  ",  but 
so  it  falls  Out,  that  some  verities  and  some  good  offices,  will 
take  a  false  colour  better  than  others,  and  set  ofiFan  imposture 
with  more  credit  and  countenance  to  the  common  people. 
Daily  experience  tells  us,  that  our  aifections  are  as  liable  to  be 
vitiated  as  our  palates ;  insomuch,  that  the  most  profitable  of 
meats,  drinks,  or  remedies,  lose  not  only  theif  effect,  put  theii" 
veiy  savour,  and  give  us  a  loathing  at  one  time  for  that  we 
longed  for,  and  took  delight  in  at  another.  But  then  we  are  to 
consider,  that  the  humour  may  come  about  again  ;  and  that 
AVritings  and  opinions  have  their  seasons  too,  and  take  their 
turns,  as  well  as  all  other  changeable  things  under  the  sun. 
So  that,  let  error,  corruption,  or  iniquity,  be  never  so  strong, 
never  so  popular ;  let  the  ignorance  of-  things  necessary  to  be 
known  be  never  so  dark  and  palpable,  we  may  yet  assure  our- 
selves that  hbwever  truth  and  justice  may  suffer  a  temporary 
eclipse,  they  wilt  yet,  at  the  long  run,  as  certainly  vindicate 
themselves,  artd  recover  their  original  glory,  as  the  setting  sun 
shall  rise  again. 

When  I  speak  of  my  Morals,  let  me  not  be  understood  to 
play  the  plagiary,  and  to  assume  the  subject-matter  of  this 
work  to  myself ;  for  it  is  Seneca's,  every  thought  and  line  of 
it ;  though  it  would  be  as  hard  to  refer  «ach  sentence,  text, 
and  precept,  to  the  very  place  whence  it  was  drawn «  as  to 
bring  every  distinct  drop  in  a  cask  <jf  wine  to  the  particular 
grape  from  whence  it  was  pressed.    So  that  I  bave  no  othev 


AN    AFTER-THOUGHT 


T. 


HIS  abstract  has  now  passed  the  fifth  impression;  but  the 
world  has  not  been  altogether  so  kind  of  late  to  my  politics  as  to 
my  morals.  And  what  is  the  meaning  of  it,  but  that  we  live 
in  an  age  that  will  better  bear  the  image  of  what  people  ought 
to  do  than  the  history  of  what  they  do?  and  that  is  the  dif- 
ference they  put  betwixt  the  one  and  the  other.  We  are  not 
yet  to  take  an  estimate  of  the  intrinsic  value  of  truth,  honesty, 
and  reason,  by  fancy  or  imagination;  as  if  the  standard  of 
virtue  were  to  be  accommodated  to  the  various  changes  and 
vicissitudes  of  times,  interests,  and  contending  parties;  but 
so  it  falls  out,  that  some  verities  and  some  good  offices,  will 
take  a  false  colour  better  than  others,  and  set  off  an  imposture 
with  more  credit  and  countenance  to  the  common  people. 
Daily  experience  tells  us,  that  our  affections  are  as  liable  to  be 
vitiated  as  our  palates;  insomuch,  that  the  most  profitable  of 
meats,  drinks,  or  remedies,  lose  not  only  their  effect,  but  their 
very  savour,  and  give  us  a  loathing  at  one  time  for  that  we 
longed  for,  and  took  delight  in  at  another.  But  then  we  are  to 
consider,  that  the  humour  may  come  about  again;  and  that 
writings  and  opinions  have  their  seasons  too,  and  take  their 
turns,  as  well  as  all  other  changeable  things  under  the  sun, 
So  that,  let  error,  corruption,  or  iniquity,  be  never  so  strong, 
never  so  popular;  let  the  ignorance  of  things  necessary  to  be 
known  be  never  so  dark  and  palpable,  we  may  yet  assure  our- 
selves that  however  truth  and  justice  may  suffer  a  temporary 
eclipse,  they  will  yet,  at  the  long  run,  as  certainly  vindicate 
themselves,  and  recover  their  original  glory,  as  the  setting  sun 
shall  rise  again. 

When  I  speak  of  my  Morals,  let  me  not  be  understood  to 
play  the  plagiary,  and  to  assume  the  subject-matter  of  this 
work  to  myself;  for  it  is  Seneca's,  every  thought  and  line  of 
it;  though  it  would  be  as  hard  to  refer  each  sentence,  text, 
and  precept,  to  the  very  place  whence  it  was  drawn,  as  to 
bring  every  distinct  drop  in  a  cask  of  wine  to  the  particular 
grape  from  whence  it  was  pressed.     So  that  I  have  no  other 


368  AN  AFTER-THOUGHT 

claim  to  the  merit  of  this  composition  than  the  putting  of 
things  in  order  that  I  found  in  confusion;  and  digesting  the 
loose  minutes,  and  the  broken  meditations  of  that  divine 
Heathen,  into  a  kind  of  system  of  good  counsels,  and  of  good 
manners.  But  how  faithfully  soever  I  have  dealt  with  my 
author,  in  a  just  and  genuine  representation  of  his  sense  and 
meaning,  so  have  I,  on  the  other  hand,  with  no  less  conscience 
and  affection,  consulted  the  benefit,  the  ease,  and  the  satisfac- 
tion of  the  English  reader,  in  the  plainness  and  simplicity  of 
the  style,  and  in  the  perspicuity  of  the  method.  And  yet, 
after  all  this,  there  is  somewhat  still  wanting,  methinks,  toward 
the  doing  of  a  full  right  to  Seneca,  to  the  world,  and  to  myself, 
and  to  the  thorough-finishing  of  this  piece;  a  thing  that  I 
have  had  in  my  head  long  and  often,  and  which  I  have  as 
good  a  will  to  prosecute,  even  at  this  instant,  as  ever,  if  I 
could  but  flatter  myself  with  day  enough  before  me  to  go 
through  with  it.  But  before  I  come  to  the  point  under  deli- 
beration, it  will  do  well,  first.  To  take  a  view  of  the  true  state  of 
the  matter  in  hand,  upon  what  ground  we  stand  at  present. 
Secondly,  To  consider  from  whence  it  is  that  we  are  to  take 
our  rise  to  it;  and  so  to  open  briefly,  and  by  degrees,  into  the 
thing  itself. 

This  abstract,  I  say,  is  entirely  Seneca's;  and  though  little 
more  in  the  bulk  than  the  third  part  of  the  original,  it  is,  in 
effect,  a  summary  of  the  whole  body  of  his  philosophy  con- 
cerning manners  contracted  into  this  epitome,  without  either 
over-charging  it  with  things  idle  and  superfluous,  or  leaving 
out  any  thing  which  I  thought  might  contribute  to  the  order 
and  dignity  of  the  work.  As  to  his  school-questions  and 
philosophical  disquisitions  upon  the  natural  reasons  of  things, 
I  have  almost  totally  cast  them  out,  as  curiosities  that  hold 
little  or  no  intelligence  with  the  government  of  our  passions, 
and  the  forming  of  our  lives,  and  as  matters,  consequently, 
that  are  altogether  foreign  to  my  province.  I  have  taken 
the  liberty  also,  in  many  cases,  where  our  author  inculcates 
and  enforces  the  same  conceptions  over  and  over  again  in 
variety  of  phrase,  to  extract  the  spirit  of  them;  and  instead 
of  dressing  up  the  same  thought  in  several  shapes,  to  make 
some  one  adequate  word  or  sentence  serve  for  all.  But 
when  all  is  said  that  can  be  said;  nay,  and  when  all  is  done 
too  that  can  be  done,  within  the  compass  of  an  essay  of  this 
quality;   though  never  so  correct  in  the  kind,  it  is  at  the  best 


AN  AFTER-THOUGHT  369 

but  an  abstract  still;  and  a  bare  abstract  will  never  do  the 
business  as  it  ought  to  be  done. 

It  is  not  one  jot  derogatory  to  Seneca's  character  to  observe 
upon  him,  that  he  made  it  his  profession,  rather  to  give  light 
hints  to  the  world,  than  to  write  corpuses  of  morality,  and 
prescribe  rules  and  measures  in  a  set  course  of  philosophy  for 
the  common  instruction  of  mankind:  so  that  many  of  his 
thoughts  seem  to  spring  only  like  sparks,  upon  a  kind  of 
collision,  or  striking  of  fire  within  himself,  and  with  a  very 
little  dependence  sometimes  one  upon  another.  What  if 
those  incomparable  starts  and  strictures  of  his,  that  no  trans- 
lator can  lay  hold  of,  shall  be  yet  allowed,  by  the  common 
voice  of  mankind,  to  be  as  much  superior  to  those  parts  of 
him  that  will  bear  the  turning  as  the  faculties  and  operations 
of  the  soul  are  to  the  functions  of  the  body?  And  no  way 
of  conveying  the  benignity  of  those  influences  to  the  world 
but  by  a  speculation  upon  them  in  paraphrase.  In  few  words; 
Seneca  was  a  man  made  for  meditation.  He  was  undoubt- 
edly a  master  of  choice  thoughts,  and  he  employed  the  vi- 
gour of  them  upon  a  most  illustrious  subject.  Beside  that, 
that  this  ranging  humour  of  his  (as  Mr.  Hobbs  expresses  it)  is 
accompanied  with  so  wonderful  a  felicity  of  lively  and  perti- 
nent reflections,  even  in  the  most  ordinary  occurrences  of 
life,  and  his  applications  so  happy  also,  that  every  man  reads 
him  over  again  within  himself,  and  feels  and  confesses  in  his 
own  heart  the  truth  of  his  doctrine.  What  can  be  done  more 
than  this  now  in  the  whole  world  toward  establishing  of  a 
right  principle?  for  there  is  no  test  of  the  truth  and  reason  of 
things  like  that  which  has  along  with  it  the  assent  of  universal 
nature.  As  he  was  much  given  to  thinking,  so  he  wrote  prin- 
cipally for  thinking  men;  the  periods  that  he  lays  most  stress 
upon  are  only  so  many  detachments  of  one  select  thought 
from  another,  and  every  fresh  hint  furnishes  a  new  text  to  work 
upon.  So  that  the  reading  of  Seneca,  without  reading  upon 
him,  does  but  the  one-half  of  our  business;  for  his  innuendoes 
are  infinitely  more  instructive  than  his  words  at  length, 
and  there  is  no  coming  at  him  in  those  heights  without  a  pa- 
raphrase 

It  will  be  here  objected,  that  a  paraphrase  is  but  the  read- 
ing upon  a  test,  or  an  arbitrary  descant  upon  the  original,  at 
the  will  and  pleasure  of  the  interpreter:  if  we  have  all  of 
Seneca's  that  is  good  already,  there  is  no  place  left  for  a  sup- 
plement; and   the   animadversion   will   be    no  more   Seneca's 


370  AN  AFTER-THOUGHT 

at  last  than  our  comments  upon  the  Word  of  God  are  holy 
writ. 

A  paraphrase,  it  is  true,  may  be  loose,  arbitrary,  and  ex- 
travagant, and  so  may  any  thing  else  that  ever  was  commit- 
ted to  writing;  nay,  the  best  and  the  most  necessary  of  du- 
ties, faculties,  and  things,  may  degenerate,  by  the  abuse  of 
them,  into  acts  of  sin,  shame,  and  folly.  Men  may  blas- 
pheme in  their  prayers;  they  may  poison  one  another  in  their 
cups,  or  in  their  porridge;  they  may  talk  of  treason;  and  in 
short,  they  may  do  a  million  of  extravagant  things,  in  all 
cases  and  offices  that  any  man  can  imagine  under  the  sun. 
And  what  is  the  objector's  inference  now,  from  the  possibi- 
lity of  this  abuse,  but  that  we  are  neither  to  pray  nor  to 
eat,  nor  to  drink,  nor  to  open  our  mouths,  nor  in  fine,  to  do 
any  thing  else,  for  fear  of  more  possibilities  as  dangerous  as 
the  other?  It  is  suggested  again,  that  the  paraphrase  is 
foreign  to  the  text,  and  that  the  animadverter  may  make  the 
author  speak  what  he  pleases.  Now,  the  question  is  not  the 
possibility  of  a  vain,  an  empty,  a  flat,  or  an  unedifying  ex- 
position; but  the  need,  the  use,  the  means,  the  possibility, 
nay,  and  the  easiness  of  furnishing  a  good  one:  beside  that, 
there  is  no  hurt  at  all,  on  the  one  hand,  to  countervail  a  very 
considerable  advantage  to  all  men  of  letters,  and  of  common 
honesty,  on  the  other.  A  short  or  an  idle  comment  does  only 
disgrace  the  writer  of  it,  while  the  reputation  of  the  author 
stands  nevertheless  as  firm  as  ever  it  did;  but  he  that  finishes 
Seneca's  minutes  with  proper  and  reasonable  supplements, 
where  he  does  not  speak  his  own  thoughts  out  at  large,  does 
a  necessary  right  both  to  the  dead  and  to  the  living,  and  a 
common  service  to  mankind. 

He  does  a  right  to  the  dead,  I  say,  more  ways  than  one: 
for,  over  and  above  the  justice  and  respect  that  is  due  to  his 
memory,  it  is,  in  a  fair  equity  of  construction,  a  performance 
of  the  very  will  of  the  dead.  For  all  his  fragments  of  hint 
and  essay  were  manifestly  designed  for  other  people  to  medi- 
tate, read,  and  speculate  upon:  and  a  great  part  of  the  end 
of  them  is  lost  without  such  an  improvement;  so  that  the 
very  manner  of  his  writings  call  for  a  paraphrase;  a  para- 
phrase he  expected,  and  a  paraphrase  is  due  to  him;  and,  in 
short,  we  owe  a  paraphrase  to  ourselves  too:  for  the  mean- 
ing of  his  hints  and  minutes  does  as  well  deserve  to  be  ex- 
pounded, as  the  sense  and  energy  of  his  words.  Nay,  and 
when  all  is  done,  whoever  considers   how  he  diversifies  the 


AN  AFTER-THOUGHT  371 

same  thing  over  and  over  in  a  change  of  phrase;  how  many 
several  ways  he  winds  and  moulds  his  own  thoughts;  and 
how  he  labours  under  the  difficulty  of  clearing  even  his  own 
meaning;  whoever  considers  this,  I  say,  will  find  Seneca, 
upon  the  whole  matter,  to  be  in  a  great  measure,  a  para- 
phrast  upon  himself.  He  gives  you  his  first  sense  of  things, 
and  then  he  enlarges  upon  it,  improves  it,  distinguishes,  ex- 
pounds, dilates,  &c,;  and  when  he  finds  at  last  that  he  can- 
not bring  up  the  force  of  his  words  to  the  purity  and  vigour 
of  his  conception,  so  as  to  extricate  himself  in  all  respects  to 
his  own  satisfaction,  it  is  his  course  commonly,  to  draw  the 
stress  of  the  question  at  a  point,  and  there  to  let  it  rest,  as  a 
theme  or  light  that  stands  effectually  recommended  to  farther 
consideration.  This  must  not  be  taken  as  if  Seneca  could  not 
speak  his  own  mind  as  full,  and  as  home  as  any  man;  or  as 
if  he  left  any  thing  imperfect,  because  he  could  not  finish  it 
himself;  but  it  was  a  turn  of  art  in  him,  by  breaking  off  with 
an  &c.  to  create  an  appetite  in  the  reader  of  pursuing  the 
hunt;  over  and  above,  the  flowing  of  matter  so  fast  upon 
him,  that  it  was  impossible  for  his  words  to  keep  pace  with 
his  thoughts. 

Be  this  now  spoken  with  all  reverence  to  his  divine  Essays 
upon  Providence,  Happy  Life,  Benefits,  Anger,  Clemency, 
Human  Frailty,  &c.  where  he  shows  as  much  of  skill  in  the 
dstribution  of  his  matter,  the  congruity  and  proportion  of  the 
parts,  and  the  harmony  of  the  whole,  in  the  context,  as  he 
does  of  a  natural  felicity  in  adapting  the  tendency  and  the 
virtue  of  all  his  sententious  raptures  to  the  use  of  human  life. 
So  that  he  was  evidently  in  possession  of  both  faculties,  (of 
springing  game,  that  is,  and  of  flying  it  home)  though  he 
made  choice  of  exercising  the  one  oftener  than  the  other. 
There  is  a  vein  of  this  mixture  that  runs  through  all  his  dis- 
courses, whether  broken  or  continued.  Albeit  that  there  is 
no  touching  any  piece  of  his  to  advantage  after  he  has  finish- 
ed it,  there  is  room  abundantly  yet  for  explication,  and  for 
supplement  in  other  cases,  where  he  snaps  off  short,  with  a 
kind  of  cetera  desiderantur;  and  so  leaves  a  foundation  for 
those  to  build  upon  that  shall  come  after  him.  Now,  these 
independent  thoughts  are  the  touches  that  I  would  offer  to  a 
farther  improvement;  and  only  here  and  there  one  of  the 
most  elevated  even  of  them  too;  which  will  amount  to  no 
more  in  the  conclusion  than  a  discourse  upon  this  or  that 
theme  or  text,  under  what  name  or  title  the  expositor  pleases. 
I  would  not,  however,  have  the  comment  break  in  upon  the 


372  AN  AFTER-THOUGHT 

context;  and  I  would  so  scrupulously  confine  it  to  the  bounds 
of  modesty  and  conscience,  as  not  to  depart  upon  any  terms, 
either  from  the  intent  of  the  original,  or  from  the  reason  of 
the  matter  in  question;  this  office  performed,  would  raise 
another  Seneca  out  of  the  ashes  of  the  former;  and  make, 
perhaps,  a  manual  of  salutary  precepts,  for  the  ordering  of 
our  passions,  and  for  the  regulation  of  our  lives,  not  inferior 
to  any  other  whatsoever,  the  divine  oracles  of  holy  inspi- 
ration only  expected.  For  it  would  reach  all  states  of  men, 
all  conditions  of  fortune,  all  distresses  of  body,  all  pertur- 
bations of  mind;  and,  in  fine,  it  would  answer  all  the  ends 
that  are  worthy  of  an  honest  man's  care.  It  was  once  in  my 
head  to  digest  the  whole  into  such  an  abstract,  as  might  at 
the  same  time  do  the  office  also  of  a  paraphrase,  both  under 
one:  but  what  with  the  scruple  of  either  assuming  any  of 
Seneca's  excellencies  to  myself,  or  of  imputing  any  of  my 
weaknesses  to  Seneca,  I  compounded  the  matter  thus  within 
myself;  that  though  both  would  do  well,  the  doing  of  them 
separate  and  apart  would  be  best.  Not  but  that  the  under- 
taker, I  fear,  will  find  well  nigh  as  much  difficulty  to  pre- 
serve his  own  reputation  in  his  attempt,  as  to  do  right  to  the 
author;  especially  when  he  is  sure  to  have  every  coflFee- 
house  sit  upon  him  like  a  court  of  justice;  and  if  he  shall  but 
happen  to  stumble  upon  any  of  the  same  figures  or  illustra- 
tions over  again;  if  the  supplement  shall  but  have  so  much 
as  the  least  tincture  of  any  thing  that  is  done  already;  a  com- 
mon criminal,  for  the  basest  sort  of  washing,  clipping,  and 
coining,  shall  find  better  quarter.  Here  is  the  old  abstract, 
they  will  cry,  juggled  into  a  new  paraphrase,  and  the  same 
thing  fobbed  upon  the  world  over  again,  only  under  another 
name:  it  will  be  hard  to  get  clear  of  such  a  cavil  when  it 
shall  be  started,  and  it  will  be  a  very  easy  thing  to  find  out  a 
plausible  colour  for  the  setting  of  it  a-foot. 

As  to  the  supposal  of  disparaging  an  excellent  author  by  a 
lewd  paraphrase,  it  is  as  idle  as  to  imagine  that  a  canonical 
text  should  suffer  for  an  heretical  interpretation.  And  so  for 
the  fancy  of  robbing  him  of  his  due  by  a  good  one,  in  a  case 
where  the  single  point  is  only  a  virtuous  emulation  betwixt 
them,  which  shall  do  best  upon  the  same  topic.  Now,  where 
the  comment  has  a  kindness  for  the  text,  there  can  be  no  in- 
terfering upon  a  pique  of  honour,  though  they  should  both 
happen  to  agree  in  the  very  self-same  thoughts.  For  what 
is  all  the  writing,  reading,  discoursing,  consulting,  disputing. 


AN  AFTER-THOUGHT  373 

meditating,  compounding,  and  dividing,  from  the  first 
quickening  breath  of  the  Almighty  into  reasonable  Nature 
to  this  very  moment;  what  is  all  this,  I  say,  but  the  lighting 
of  one  candle  at  another?  Make  it  the  case,  that  by  the 
benefit  of  that  light  I  find  a  treasure.  Here  is  no  robbing  of 
Peter  to  pay  Paul;  nor  any  particular  obligation  for  an  act  of 
common  humanity.  Reason  works  by  communication;  and 
one  thought  kindles  another  from  generation  to  generation, 
as  naturally  as  one  spark  begets  another,  where  the  matter  is 
disposed  for  the  impression. 

This  is  no  more  than  to  say  that  Providence,  for  the 
good  of  mankind,  has  made  all  men  necessary  one  to 
another.  He  that  puts  a  good  hint  into  my  head,  puts 
a  good  word  into  my  mouth,  unless  a  blockhead  has  it 
in  keeping:  so  that  there  is  an  obligation  on  both  sides. 
The  text  is  beholden  to  him  that  reads  upon  it  for  improving 
it;  and  the  latter  had  never  thought  of  the  subject  perhaps, 
if  the  former  had  not  bolted  it.  What  is  all  this  now  but  rea- 
soning upon  first  motions,  and  a  joining  of  those  two  powers 
of  faculties  both  in  one  for  a  public  good?  Reason  is  uni- 
form; and  where  two  men  are  in  the  right,  they  must  of  ne- 
cessity agree  upon  the  same  point:  and  the  thoughts  of  sev- 
eral men  in  such  a  case,  are  as  much  one  as  a  conflagration 
is  one  fire,  by  how  many  several  hands  soever  it  was  kindled: 
so  that  there  is  no  saying  which  was  one's  thought  or  which 
the  other's;  but  they  are  incorporated  into  one  common 
stock.  The  great  nicety  will  lie  in  a  judicious  choice  what 
to  take  and  what  to  leave;  where  to  begin  and  where  to  end; 
and  in  hitting  the  precise  medium  betwixt  too  much  and  too 
little,  without  forcing  the  design  of  the  author,  or  intermix- 
ing any  tawdry  flourishes  by  the  bye,  to  disgrace  the  dignity 
of  the  matter.  I  would  not  have  so  much  as  one  word  in- 
serted that  might  not  become  Seneca  himself,  if  he  were  now 
living,  either  to  speak  or  approve.  Once  for  all,  such  a  read- 
ing upon  Seneca  as  I  have  here  propounded,  upon  these 
terms,  and  under  these  conditions,  and  in  such  a  manner  too, 
as  to  take  the  genuine  air  and  figure  of  his  mind,  in  its  na- 
tive simplicity  and  beauty;  such  a  paraphrase,  I  say,  super- 
added by  way  of  supplement,  where  the  Abstract  falls  short, 
would  furnish  us  with  that  which  of  all  things  in  the  world 
we  want  the  most;  that  is  to  say,  a  perfect  and  a  lively 
image  of  Human  Nature. 

THE     END 


THIS    CENTENNIAL    EDITION 

OF   THE    FIRST    VOLUME 

ISSUED    BY 

HARPER   &    BROTHERS 

IS    ARRANGED    IN   THIS    FORM    BY 

WILLIAM   DANA  ORCUTT 


University  of 
Connecticut 

Libraries 


39153028331108 


